Getting to Know You
by laurasmileygirl
Summary: While traveling back in time, Emma takes the opportunity to learn more about Hook by exploring his cabin. What she finds is not what she expected. Canon up until 3x21. Mostly speculation about Hook's past! *Currently being edited!*
1. Chapter 1

Over the course of Emma's life so far, she'd come to realize that you could learn a lot about a person based on the place they called home.

Take Regina, for example. Her house was classy and neat to the point of unfriendliness. It fit perfectly with her cold exterior and almost unchangeable opinions. In contrast, Mary Margaret's home was ridiculously homey. It was bright, neat but cluttered enough to feel lived-in, and rustic. In short, it was welcoming, much like she was. Then there was Mr. Gold's shop. It was cluttered, dark, and dusty. In short, sketchy. Again, a perfect match for the man who owned it.

That was why, when Emma found herself in Hook's cabin once again, she was suddenly struck with a burning curiosity. She'd been in his cabin before, of course, but things had been different then. She hadn't been as... well... interested? At the very least, she was forcing herself not to be interested. Hook was a necessary means to the end of getting Henry back, nothing more. Any curiosity about the contents of the room had been pushed aside in a stubborn refusal to admit any interest in the man, but now they were, at the very least, friends. He'd followed her into a time-travel portal, for God's sake. Surely, it was natural for her to be a little bit tempted by the opportunity to look around and learn more about the man now lying knocked out on the floor.

Her Hook - no, she meant Hook from her time, not hers - was currently up on the deck. Right after he'd knocked himself out, Smee had nervously called down to him about some "visitors" who wanted to see him.

"What visitors?" Emma asked.

Hook frowned. "I've no idea. Perhaps some men seeking a place among my crew."

Emma raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

With a sigh, Killian admitted, "but more likely visitors with less friendly intentions."

"Like?" Emma demanded.

"Men wishing to challenge my position, men who have taken issue with myself or my crew at some point, some new sycophantic soldier or officer of the law hoping for glory by bringing pirates to justice," he shrugged. "You get the idea."

Emma groaned. "Seriously? How can you be so calm about this?"

"Because, love, this is far from the first time this has happened. I'll just go up and take care of it and then we can be on our way," he assured her, moving towards the ladder.

"Do you have... uh... a spare sword, or something?" Emma asked awkwardly. The words felt ridiculously strange on her tongue. Sometimes she still almost had to pinch herself to remind herself that this was, in fact, her life.

"Plenty, but they will be of little use to you down here," Killian said firmly.

"Hey! I'm coming," Emma snapped, moving to follow him.

Killian pushed her back gently but firmly. "No, you're not. I'm sorry to tell you this Swan, but you're bloody useless with a sword-"

"I beat you!" Emma argued.

Killian just raised an eyebrow at her. The silence dragged out for a few seconds as Emma studied his expression for any sign of a lie, growing increasingly irritated.

"No, you are not going to convince me that you let me win," Emma said irritably.

Killian glanced at her pityingly. "Swan, love. We don't have the luxury of time at this second, so perhaps we can leave that conversation for a later date. If my concern for your welfare isn't enough to keep you down here, then think about this; no bar-wench I brought back to the ship would be rushing up there to assist me. At the very least, you would cause Smee suspicion. Or, perhaps one of the 'guests' on the ship is someone you have met or will meet in the future, and meeting him too early would cause catastrophic consequences. I'm not willing to take that risk. And, if you need yet another reason, I think Henry needs his mother back in one piece, don't you?"

Emma scowled. "I can handle myself in a fight."

Again, the eyebrow jumped up. "Be back in a few. Make yourself at home, love," Killian said, leaving no room for argument.

Emma let out a frustrated groan, turning her anger towards the unconscious man on the floor.

"You did not let me win," she insisted.

His lack of response, even if it was justified since this Hook hadn't fought her yet, just made her more irritated.

And perhaps that was another reason for her sudden curiosity. If she was going to have to stay down here, at least for now, she needed something to pass the time. Invading his privacy for revenge may have been a little bit juvenile, but Emma preferred to think of it as a learning experience. Returning to the past had reminded her of something that was strangely disconcerting. She had realized to her surprise that while Hook knew many things about her past, she knew very little about his. Sure, she knew about Milah and a little bit about Gold, but other than that, the man in the tavern had been a complete mystery to her. Surely using her time in a constructive way wasn't such a bad thing, and Killian had said to make herself at home.

Emma moved towards the bed first. It was neatly made - almost hotel room standards, really - with luxurious, exotically patterned blankets and pillows. The idea of him being well-travelled was hardly news to her, so examining the bed provided little new information. Some random pirate-y things hung from hooks on the walls, but Emma found herself moving away from those things towards the books stacked above his bed. She had never really pictured Captain Hook as a fan of reading, but then maybe she shouldn't have been surprised considering his extensive vocabulary. There were books on sailing, books on science, books on medicine, books on plants, books of poetry (she hadn't been expecting that one), books filled with neat cursive that appeared to be records of the ship... his collection was extensive. Emma would have loved to read through more of them, but she wasn't sure how long she would have to explore the cabin and she wanted to get through as much as she could.

She moved to the wardrobe next, throwing it open to find many neatly hung clothes. Some of them looked like the sort of thing she had seen him wear before, but there were surprises in the wardrobe too. There was one outfit that looked like a naval uniform, which Emma took out to stare at. It looked too big to be Hook's. Could it have been his mysterious brother's? Was his brother in the navy? Or was it a souvenir from a battle, belonging to some enemy? Would Killian make his enemies strip and then walk the plank? He did have a strange sense of humour.

Emma put it back and looked at the rest of the clothing again. She felt a small twinge of something, perhaps sympathy or even some sadness of her own, to see that half of the wardrobe was still taken up by what could only be the clothes of a woman. There were dresses and there were clothes that looked more suitable to life aboard a pirate ship, but all of them looked to be about the same size. There was a great variety, as well. One dress, pushed to the back as though it was not well-loved, was fairly conservative and made of rough, cheap fabric. Others were far nicer, made of silks or prettily patterned. Then, of course, there was a certain amount of leather. Curious, Emma pulled out one of the dresses and held it up against herself. The woman who owned these had been taller than her, but that was about all she could determine. Emma put it back quickly, feeling guilty for a moment as though she was disturbing something sacred. To Killian, perhaps she was. She wondered briefly if Killian had gotten rid of anything of Milah's at all. Based on the wardrobe, she would guess not. The only question she really had was whether he kept them to preserve her memory or because getting rid of them was too painful.

Emma opened the cupboards underneath the wardrobe next, finding jewelry, shoes, small clothing items, and other small things. Emma bit back a smile when she found what could only be Hook's supply of eyeliner. The bottom drawer seemed to be devoted to Milah as well. She opened it to find an ornate mirror, a brush (with long, curly hair still stuck onto it... the never-get-rid-of-anything-belonging-to-Milah theory was looking better and better), elegant hairpins, perfume, make-up, hose, gloves, paintbrushes, pencils, other assorted items... it was almost as if Killian still expected Milah to waltz through the door.

There were various treasures scattered throughout the cabin, but Emma found herself drawn towards the desk instead. Various papers covered with Hook's elegant scrawl and navigational instruments were all neatly placed on the desk or in the drawers. Emma was about to shut the desk drawer and move onto the drawers underneath the bed when something caught her eye. One paper was much older than the others, tucked underneath other papers so that it was obscured except for a single, yellowed corner. Carefully, Emma extracted the paper from the pile and stared.

A charcoal woman stared back at her. She had wild, dark curls cascading down her front and her back, high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and intelligent eyes. She had the oddest feeling that the woman was staring right through her.

Emma knew without a doubt that she was looking at Milah. The paper was weathered, slightly torn, and creased as though it was habitually folded and carried around in a pocket. There were a couple of lighter spots on the page that looked almost like tear stains, but Emma supposed it also could have been the spray of the ocean. In fact, she hoped it was. She had trouble picturing Killian crying, but, then again, he must have. For the first time, Emma let her mind wander, wondering how many nights Killian had spent crying for this woman.

What had Killian seen in her? For him to preserve all of this stuff of hers, to brand her name on his skin, to devote his life to revenge, surely she must have been special. All Emma knew was Milah had abandoned her son, although she wasn't sure she could entirely blame her for leaving a husband like Rumplestiltskin. She had a pretty face, but surely that wouldn't inspire such devotion. What was it about her that Killian loved? Emma was suddenly burning with curiosity about the woman staring at her from the page in her hand. Her gaze had become almost mocking now. Perhaps it was the secrets of the woman herself that lingered beneath the page, mocking Emma with their eternal mystery. Or perhaps it was something else. Emma felt oddly as though the woman was judging her, which was ridiculous when the woman was dead and all she was holding was a facsimile. Nevertheless, Emma felt like Milah was appraising her value and triumphing in the knowledge that she was superior to Killian's new object of affection.

Emma slammed the picture on the desk with a bit more force than may have been necessary.

She opened a cupboard underneath Killian's bed next and found the last thing she had expected.

A violin.

It gleamed faintly in the dim light, polished and clearly well-loved. It was cradled among fabric, protected enough that it must be a prized possession. A long, elegant bow lay next to it, with one crucial difference in comparison to other violin bows: there was a hand attachment, like the one that Killian used in place of his hook, attached to the bow.

So, Killian had played the violin. With one hand. That was surprising, to say the least, and maybe a little bit impressive.

Emma frowned slightly. She was certain that violin bows were held with the right hand. Did that mean that Killian played backwards? She supposed he'd had hundreds of years to master it. Suddenly, a new image popped into her mind. Suddenly, she could clearly imagine Killian playing violin in his cabin through the long nights of Neverland, drowning out the cries of the lost boys with bittersweet music that was perhaps as heartbreaking as the crying itself.

Emma closed the cupboard gently and moved to the opposite one underneath his bed. She gasped when she opened it, taking in the piles and piles of pages covered with writing.

Music. These were pages of music, handwritten in a familiar scrawl. Emma knew very little about the subject of composition, but she still sifted through multiple pages. Many were titled and dated, such as "Dawn - 1923" or "For Milah - 1826". They seemed to get older and older closer to the bottom of the pile. One, dated 1814, even had a letter on the back:

_Dearest Lyanna,_

_I regret that I cannot send you more than this for your birthday. As you are now six years old, I wanted to give you something befitting of a lady such as a necklace or one of those perfumes that your mother seems to love so much. However, I'm afraid that there are very few merchants on a battlefield, so I hope this will suffice._

_I set the poem that you loved so well when I read it to you last year to music. Perhaps your mother can sing it to you, but if she will not, I may show it to you when I return._

_I think of you every day. Try to stay out of my uncle's way. I know that you are almost grown up, but, still, I would rather I were there to protect you. I send you as much love as I can fit onto this page,_

_Killian_

Underneath, a small reply was scrawled in a far messier print:

_Dear Killian,_

_Now that I am six I beleve my speling is much improved! My mother will not giv me paper so I decided to send you this bak. Mother says she will not sing it, but that's fine becos I'd prefer you to sing it enyway. I love it very much and now that you hav it bak, you can stedy it and giv me a perfect performence when you come home._

_Pleese hurry. I am lonely without you._

_Love,_

_Lyanna_

Well, now Emma knew that Killian had been involved in some sort of war, and he was close with a mystery little girl. A daughter? A sister?

Emma rifled through the papers from around that time, hoping for another mention of this mysterious Lyanna.

When she found it, she almost wished she hadn't.

It was titled "Requiescat - for Lyanna" and dated only 1817. The little girl had died when she was only eight or nine. It looked as though Killian had written both music and words:

_Tread lightly, she is near_

_Under the snow,_

_Speak gently, she can hear_

_The daisies grow._

_All her bright golden hair_

_Tarnished with rust,_

_She that was young and fair_

_Fallen to dust._

_Lily-like, white as snow,_

_She hardly knew_

_She was a woman, so_

_Sweetly she grew._

_Coffin-board, heavy stone,_

_Lie on her breast,_

_I vex my heart alone_

_She is at rest._

_Peace, Peace, she cannot hear_

_Lyre or sonnet,_

_All my life's buried here,_

_Heap earth upon it.*_

Tears burned Emma's eyes as she read it. Apparently, Killian was a damn good poet too. She shouldn't have been surprised, but there it was.

Quickly, she rifled to the bottom of the stack, hoping for a happier distraction. She wasn't disappointed.

The bottom piece of music was dated 1804 and written in a messy, young child's hand. It was called "Summer Roses - For Mama". However, in spite of the childlike writing, the content of the music itself looked complicated.

"Great," Emma muttered to herself. It would be just her luck if he ended up being some sort of child prodigy.

She placed the music back into the cupboard carefully, moving to the last unexplored area of the cabin: the drawers under the bed.

The top one contained a sketchbook. Emma opened it to find Milah's name printed neatly in the corner of the cover. Well, now she knew that Milah was an artist. Perhaps the portrait of her was by her own hand. Maybe that meant it was overly flattering? At the very least, it meant that she was vain enough to draw pictures of herself. The thought made Emma oddly satisfied.

She became more grateful to Milah as she rifled through the book, though. Mostly, it had pictures of Killian; Killian sleeping, Killian laughing and looking more carefree than Emma had ever seen, Killian at the helm of the ship...

The person most featured after Killian was a little boy, who Emma assumed must be Neal. He had been a cute child. Seeing him and remembering that he was dead hurt, sending a dull ache through her. She wondered if Neal had ever known how much Milah had loved him; she must have loved him very much to draw him so often. Emma felt a strange sense of - perhaps grudging - camaraderie with the woman, if only because she could relate to a mother's love.

Emma carefully placed the sketchbook back into the drawer, almost wishing that she could take it with her.

The next drawer held an assortment of portraits and papers. The top one immediately caught Emma's eye. A thin woman with dark, gently curled hair and striking, sharp features smiled happily from a small, painted portrait. She was a beautiful woman, with her black hair contrasting starkly against her pale skin. Most striking of all were her eyes, which were bright blue like a tropical ocean. She was all angles, with sharp cheekbones and sharp dimples, but a certain kindness seemed to bleed through underneath. She looked positively elegant in a long white wedding gown. Beside her, a tall, muscled man with a strong jaw and wavy brown hair smiled seriously up at her. His eyes were grey-blue, and everything about him looked serious. Underneath, the pair were identified as "Christine and Edward Jones, 1794", but Emma didn't even need to read it to know that she was looking at Killian's parents. Killian was almost the spitting image of his mother.

Emma looked through each picture carefully, identifying different family members of Killian's. She found Liam, who looked more like his father than his mother. She also found Lyanna, although her picture was only a rough sketch. Nonetheless, the artist captured the little girl well enough that Emma felt herself mourning her, which was ridiculous when she was a stranger who had been dead for almost two hundred years.

She was so wrapped up in looking at the pictures that she didn't hear Killian come back down the ladder.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, more in surprise than in anger.

Emma jumped, almost dropping the sketch.

"You said to make myself at home," she bit back defensively.

Killian carefully stepped over his unconscious self and moved towards her, face expressionless.

"Who was she?" Emma asked softly when he was close enough to clearly see the sketch of Lyanna.

Killian frowned, taking the picture from her with a slightly trembling hand.

"No one that would concern you," he finally said, voice tight, placing the picture back in the drawer with the others and closing it abruptly. "We should get going, Swan."

Emma opened her mouth to argue, but Killian was already leaving, anger and sadness radiating through the tenseness of his body.

With a last look around the cabin, feeling as though she couldn't look at it in the same way anymore, she followed her companion. Somehow, she couldn't help but feel as though her exploration had left her with more questions than answers.

* * *

This beautiful poem is actually by Oscar Wilde.


	2. Chapter 2

"Let's stop here, shall we?" Killian said tonelessly.

Emma scowled at the man as he moved next to the trunk of a particularly large tree. Part of her was relieved to stop. It had a been a long day and trudging through the woods for the past few hours after leaving Killian's ship had her feeling dead on her feet. Hook didn't say so, but Emma sensed that he was feeling the same way from his increasingly slower pace throughout the trek. To make matters worse, it had started raining about an hour ago and she was now soaked to the skin. She hadn't even had any conversation to distract her. Ever since catching her with his belongings, Killian had barely said a word. What he did say was said tightly, lacking his usual good humour. While Emma had initially wondered if he was just upset at the reminders from his past, she was now fairly certain that he was angry with her. Well, he was welcome to be angry. She'd just be angry right back.

Moving towards him without a word, Emma took off her sopping cloak and wrung out her hair, resolutely avoiding Killian's eyes.

"I'll take the first watch," Killian offered tiredly.

"Fine," Emma bit back, laying down on the mossy, damp forest floor and trying to ignore the raindrops leaking through the canopy of leaves over her head onto her face. The roots poking into her back weren't particularly comfortable either.

Emma felt Killian's eyes on her. "You're going to be cold without your cloak, Swan," Killian said after a moment.

"It's soaking wet," Emma snapped.

The pirate didn't reply, clearly deciding that this was not an argument he wanted to have at the moment. Instead, he sighed and moved to the edge of the relatively sheltered area under the tree and sat as still as a statue, staring into the darkness.

Once he was still, Emma huddled further into herself, attempting to hold back shivers and calm her breathing enough to slip into sleep. God knows that she was tired enough. However, what with the discomfort and thoughts of everything that could go wrong with their plan to return to the present, sleep was frustratingly elusive.

Ten minutes with increasingly violent shivering passed.

"Swan?" Hook called softly.

Emma just scowled and buried her face in her arm.

Suddenly, Killian began to shift around. Emma heard a hiss of pain and a quiet curse, and then suddenly something warm and heavy was draped over her. Before she could respond, Hook had moved back to his previous position, now holding his knees to his chest for warmth.

Emma opened her mouth to protest (who did he think he was, attempting to take care of her when he was clearly angry at her?) but found herself distracted. The coat was warm and soft and smelled pleasantly like Killian. If he wanted to give it up, that was his own problem. In fact, he deserved it for being such an irritable ass.

However, Emma still found herself unable to sleep. Now she was distracted by guilt and couldn't help studying the pirate's still silhouette. He looked much more vulnerable than she had ever really seen him. It was one thing for him to be missing his coat, but his posture itself was far more sunken than usual. His chin rested on his knees as though he was too tired to hold his head up, and now he was shivering lightly. With a sigh of her own, Emma curled one last time into the comfort of the warm coat that smelled of the ocean and spice and something unmistakably clean and Killian, fully intending to give it back to its owner, when she felt something wet on the inside of the coat.

She would have assumed that it was just rain, but it felt oddly warm and more wet than the slight dampness of the rest of the coat. Hesitantly, Emma brought her fingers to her nose and froze, smelling the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

"Hook, you're hurt," Emma said, sitting up abruptly.

Killian jumped slightly. "Swan, I thought you were asleep."

She was already moving towards him, the coat wrapped around her still like a blanket. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably now as she looked at the past few hours in a new light. Perhaps his silence didn't have anything to do with anger at all. Maybe it was pain that had caused his tense silence, and she'd just misread it.

"Stop avoiding the question. What happened? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Calm down, love. It's barely a scratch," Killian replied.

"Where?" Emma demanded, kneeling down beside him.

"I've taken care of it. Just go back to sleep," he brushed her off gently.

"Where?" Emma snarled.

Even in the dim light, she could see Killian rolling his eyes, but he gingerly lifted up his shirt to reveal his right side.

"Just a scratch and a cracked rib, I'd wager," he said.

Emma leaned down to examine it. She couldn't see much from the first rays of sun struggling to shine past the clouds, but she could see that he'd tied some fabric loosely around himself. Hesitantly, Emma brushed her fingertips against it.

"It's already bled through. I think it's more than a scratch," she hissed.

"It'll stop eventually. If it doesn't stop by morning, I should have a needle and thread in one of my pockets so that I can close it up," Killian mumbled. He sounded exhausted.

"Hook! It's been hours. You need to do it now," she said urgently.

"While I'm flattered by your concern, love, I think I may need better light to attempt it," he replied, looking around pointedly.

"Are you kidding me?" Emma exclaimed, her insides twisting with worry. "Well, you should at least lie down or lean against something."

Without waiting for permission, she grabbed his arm and started to pull him to his feet, causing him to emit a low groan between clenched teeth.

"I can stand on my own, lass," he said tersely, pulling his arm away from hers as he moved slowly towards the tree trunk to lean against it. As soon as he was seated again, breathing hard, Emma reached down to examine the cut once again.

"Damn, I wish I had a flashlight."

"A what?" He asked, genuinely confused as he swatted her hand away.

"Flashlight! You know, like a... torch, but you just press a button and the light comes on?" Emma said hurriedly.

"Ah, yes, I believe I'm familiar with those devices. I'd just not heard the name. Rather a strange name, really," he muttered to himself, squeezing his right arm tightly against the bandaged area with a slight groan.

"Do you need help?" Emma asked awkwardly, realizing that this was one time when a left hand would probably have been helpful.

Hook just glared at her, which made her irritated once again.

"So, how did this even happen?" She asked.

"Well, you know how it is. Sharp objects come in contact with skin, the skin breaks-"

"By 'sharp object', I'm assuming you mean sword? Belonging to...?" Emma cut in, choosing to ignore his smartass remarks.

"No one of consequence. Just a few men eager to challenge my position. I'm confident that they won't be doing that again," Hook said, a hard edge to his voice. "Are you going to sleep, love? If not, I think I-"

"You should have told me," she said angrily. "We could've stopped earlier-"

"As I said, Swan, I took care of it. Besides, it should be of little consequence to you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Emma shouted.

Killian raised an eyebrow at her. "Well, as I understand it, you are returning to New York. I'll ensure that you return to the present, and, after that, my state of well-being is hardly your concern as I doubt we will meet again."

"You aren't seriously going with that, are you?" Emma said, bristling as she read between the lines. Did he honestly believe that she valued his well-being only for his usefulness to her?

"You certainly didn't need something else to worry about," Killian added as if she hadn't spoken. His concerned expression in the dim light said it all; she was still an open book to him. He could tell how much the uncertainty of the future was bothering her.

"Yeah, because I wouldn't have worried if you'd dropped dead from blood loss or anything," she muttered.

"Well, there would be no point in worrying at that point, love. Death is rather irreversible and worrying about it is a bloody waste of energy," Killian groaned, readjusting his arm over the makeshift bandage.

Emma scowled at him, but her mind had suddenly leapt back to the Jolly Roger, to cupboards and drawers packed with mementos to lost loved ones. She supposed that if anyone had learned lessons about the irreversibility of death, it would be Killian. The contrast between his pragmatism and her parents views, for example, was significant. Her parents were people who believed that death was never permanent, and, for them, perhaps that was true. It was also true for Rumplestiltskin, which must have been especially horrible for Killian. Apparently, powers of resurrection were selective and not always just.

As usual, Killian saw right through her sudden emotional shift.

"Something wrong, love?" He looked at her searchingly.

It was at that moment that Emma came to a conclusion with startling clarity. "Were you going to tell me before you saw me with that picture?" Emma asked suddenly.

Killian opened his mouth to respond, but then paused, scratching behind his ear uncomfortably. "I suppose that it did slip my mind after that..."

"So you were mad at me." It wasn't a question.

"I apologize. It was childish on my part, but I wasn't in the mood for conversation. You deserved to know that I had sustained injury, but I needed some time to myself," he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

Emma felt a small twinge of guilt. "You didn't want me to talk to you about... what I'd found?"

"I avoid backstory at all costs, Swan," Killian sighed.

In a sense, Emma could understand it. She'd had her share of unpleasant memories. They sat in a tiny shadowed corner of her mind that allowed her to mostly forget them and function on a day to day basis. That corner was the place where she kept the hurt of being abandoned by her parents and later Neal, the hurt of never being wanted, and the anger towards the people in the system who had never provided the love craved by a lonely little girl. As long as they stayed in that corner, the grief was minimal, but the second she pulled them to the surface again, the pain was always as strong as before. People had a tendency to claim that time healed all wounds, but Emma had learned that time did no such thing. Time just taught you to live with the burden of grief.

"Did you talk about it with Milah?" The question popped out before Emma could stop it, seemingly from thin air.

Killian glanced at her in surprise, but recovered quickly. "Well, there wasn't too much to tell Milah. She was already familiar with a great deal of it."

Emma tilted her head in thought. "Wait, so... are you saying that you met before she married Rumplestiltskin?"

"Aye, we knew each other some time before," Killian confirmed, looking faraway.

A million questions flooded Emma's mind at once, half-blinding her. She wanted nothing more than to just let them all flood out, regardless of their coherence, but she knew she had to handle the situation carefully.

"So, no backstory. Never? Not with anyone? Not even someone you won't see much of in the future?" Emma prompted.

Killian chuckled quietly. "Swan, subtlety was never your strong point. There was a reason I wished to avoid the subject earlier; if you wish to know, I doubt that I can deny you anything." There was a hint of something almost wistful or resigned in his words.

"Well, Captain, I would love to be your first," Emma said teasingly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Killian grinned in spite of himself at her wording.

"What would you like to know?"

Emma bit her lip in consideration, faces and names and letters and music all blurring together.

"Your parents," she said finally. "Who were they?"

Killian closed his eyes, and soon enough his deep, smooth voice was painting the air with pictures and faces long forgotten by the world for well onto two hundred years.

* * *

The next chapter is going to focus on my own version of Hook's parents. I'll try to get it up quickly! Thanks again for reading. :)


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter introduces Killian's mother. Killian hasn't been born yet, but I promise that it's necessary backstory!

Thanks for reading and thank you everyone who has followed, favourited, and reviewed. I promise to reply to you guys soon; I just wanted to focus on getting this chapter up first!

* * *

The Past - Approximately 1789 C.E.

* * *

It was evening, and the air was so hot and thick that Christine Crewe could almost taste the jungle on her tongue. Monkeys chattered in the distance, and somewhere an elephant trumpeted. Christine closed her eyes, dangling bare feet into the warm ocean, trying to commit the moment to memory.

"What are you doing?"

A little boy with light blonde hair was looking at her curiously, his nose scrunched up as he considered her in all the seriousness a ten-year-old could muster.

"I'm saying goodbye," Christine said, patting on the rock next to her in invitation.

"Why?" He asked, sitting down agreeably. At his age, four years older still felt like a lot, and the trust he had in Christine's omnipotence was absolute.

"Because I like it here, and I want to remember everything in case we don't return," she replied seriously, her blue eyes boring into her brother's identical ones.

"Oh," he said, looking out across the ocean in consideration. Then, in a small voice, he asked, "do you think the Enchanted Forest will be as nice as it is here?"

"It is," Christine confirmed seriously. She'd been only four when she left, but that left her with more memories of the place than her less-than-a-year-old brother. However, she didn't really remember much of the place itself. She mostly remembered her mother, a thin woman with sparkling eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and a lilting accent that turned every sentence into a question. She tried to remember those good memories of her mother, rather than the bad. It was because of her mother's death that her father had taken them to the Southern Isles in the first place, and that was a nightmarish moment that Christine remembered far too clearly. Her mother had picked her up in a panic, trying in vain to run further into the house to escape the bad men (that was what her father had always called them, and the name had stuck even now that she was older). Then Christine had felt a thump, heard a hitched breath, and fallen to the floor under the weight of her now still mother. She'd been pulled roughly out, with one of the bad men poking a sword towards her neck hard enough to leave a thin scar, when her father had come in and saved the day. They didn't have time to grieve Katie Crewe. The three remaining family members had left on the next ship.

"Christine! Connor!" Their father called.

Connor scampered towards Jonathan Crewe, jumping into his arms. Christine, ever the dignified older sister, followed behind more slowly.

"We have to leave?" She asked reluctantly.

"Yes, love, we do," he said with a sympathetic smile, ruffling her unruly dark curls affectionately.

As much as she hated to admit it, having no mother had never been a problem for Christine. She remembered only a few things about her that didn't even form a complete enough picture for Christine to remember whether she even liked the woman, but she imagined she must have. Her mother had tried to save her, after all, and surely that was enough to prove that she was a good person. However, her memories and the stories she heard about her mother always conflicted. Her mother had met her father when she took him prisoner. To understand why, you had to look back to _her_ parents, who were murdered when she was a child along with the rest of her family by a man who wanted - and got - their throne. As a result, Katie Crewe had been a threat to one of the kingdoms in the Southern Enchanted Forest because she was the one surviving member of her family. That meant that no one there seemed to like her very much, (which seemed a little bit unfair to Christine). Katie had kidnapped John to try to coerce his family - some nobles just to the North - into backing her claim to the throne. From what Christine gathered, that hadn't worked so well because that just made them go to the mean king for help (the "mean king" was another of her father's labels that had just stuck). Then the mean king had decided to execute Katie, but John had secretly freed her in exchange for the promise that she would give up all designs on the throne and try to have a normal life. Apparently, that meant marrying him, because they married in secret less than a year later.

So, that was the issue. On one hand, Christine remembered her mother with the sparkling eyes and musical voice. On the other hand, she heard stories about her mother running around kidnapping people and burning people she didn't like at the stake. Multiple times. All in all, the two pieces of the puzzle were a bit hard for her to fit together.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Wait a second," Emma interrupted incredulously. "Your grandmother burned people alive?!"

Killian chortled. "Does that surprise you, love? She was _my_ grandmother."

"Yes, of course it surprises me! That isn't what people normally do!" She said, eyes wide.

"You do know what your son's other mother did to people, right? Murder is a bit more common around here, although perhaps more so when I was a lad."

Emma opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. On second thought, she didn't want to know.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Christine's inability to grasp who her mother really was made it easy to mostly forgot about her, except for when her father looked particularly sad. She'd explained early on to her brother that his sad face meant he was thinking of Katie and he needed time alone. When he didn't need time alone, he was the best father in the entire world. He liked dancing and chocolate and playing the violin while Christine sang in her pure soprano voice. He had been willing to play ferocious animals during her games as a little (which she always justified based on his beard making him the hairiest), and now that she was older he was still the first person she talked to about anything. He was also a wonderful teacher, and the only teacher Christine had ever had. She'd learned all of the regular subjects from him, like history and geometry and literature and music, but he'd also taught her more important things, like how to use a knife to protect herself. He had a deep laugh and a frequent smile, and Christine knew that he loved her and Connor best in the entire world.

Christine also knew that he was a very _good_ man, which was both good and annoying. He was good, which made Christine love him, but he was also _good_, which meant that when his adopted family wanted him to come back and help now that the mean king was trying to take over their lands too, Jonathan Crewe didn't even hesitate before agreeing to come.

Christine knew that she was going to miss the Southern Isles. There was no king there, which meant no mean men came and tried to kill her. There were elephants and the people were all kind and spoke to her in a beautiful language that reminded her of a gurgling brooke with its soft, smooth words. The food was spicy and the air was hot, and the ocean was always glimmering invitingly.

However, there was one exciting thing about returning to the Enchanted Forest. The only thing Christine loved as much as the Southern Isles and her family was singing. Her father had (reluctantly) agreed to allow her to go to school in a Northern coastal city to learn how to sing and dance when they got back to the Enchanted Forest while Connor stayed with her youngest uncle, who was going to be in charge of the castle while papa and the rest of his family went to fight the mean king.

Yes, Christine was going to miss the Southern Isles, but perhaps the Enchanted Forest wouldn't be so awful after all.

* * *

The Enchanted Forest was awful.

Christine had managed not to cry when she said goodbye to papa and Connor (after making Connor _promise_ to eat his vegetables), but that only meant that now she had to cry as quietly as she could in her room now to make up for it.

A quiet knock on the door pulled Christine out of feeling sorry for herself.

"Enter," she sniffed.

A girl about her age walked in with a broom.

"Apologies, miss, but I'm supposed to clean your room."

Christine looked at her blankly. "I can do it."

The girl looked at her just as blankly. "If you do it, I won't get my wages, miss."

After Christine took a moment to re-evaluate the girl in front of her in case she'd missed something, she asked hesitantly, "aren't your parents employed? You should be getting some sort of an education, shouldn't you?"

The girl's jaw dropped before she dissolved into suppressed giggles. "Oh, no, miss... my parents died years ago. If I wasn't working, I'd be dead on the streets."

"That's not very fair," Christine said. Then her eyes lit up. "Let me help you!"

The girl protested, but Christine ignored her. Soon, the room was clean, and Christine had managed to convince the girl to sit down and talk. They talked for so long that Christine insisted on helping her with her other chores so that she could finish in a good amount of time.

Sari was the first real friend that Christine had. When Christine discovered that Sari slept in the kitchen, she insisted that Sari share her room and the girls talked each night away. Christine suspected that her singing instructor knew that Sari had help with her chores, but she didn't say anything about it so long as Christine kept up with her school work too. The headmistress of the school was another matter, but, fortunately, the woman was too involved in her own affairs to notice the blossoming friendship underneath her nose.

Several months into her first semester, Christine sent a long earnest letter to her father outlining a proposition. On the evening that she received a response, after reading it several times to ensure that her eyes weren't deceiving her, she ran to the dining hall where Sari was currently setting the table for the pupils and students of the school.

Christine was so excited that she almost ran into her friend, who let out a small frightened squeak like a small animal.

"Lord, what was that for, Christine?" She gasped.

"I've received a letter from my father!" Christine said, wrapping her arms around her friend.

"That's good to hear," Sari said, sounding slightly confused.

"No, you have to hear what it says!" Christine insisted, waving the letter around.

"What?" Sari asked, going back to setting the table.

Christine followed her friend around reading excitedly.

"My darling Christine, Sari sounds like a lovely young woman. Indeed, from reading your missive, I almost feel as though I know her myself. As you know, I myself was raised by others than my own parents, and, you are right, I do have great sympathy for orphans. While having one daughter has always been blessing enough for me, I agree that you having a sister could be most agreeable as well. I have sent another letter to the headmistress of your school informing her that Sari is now also my daughter, and look forward to meeting her in the near future."

Sari was so shocked that she dropped the silverware.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Your grandfather just adopted her?!"

"He was sympathetic to the plight of an orphan and woefully wrapped around my mother's finger, from what I gather," Killian replied. "But yes, that's the story of how I got an aunt."

Emma frowned, finding it difficult to push down her resentment at anyone getting adopted so easily.

"If it makes you feel any better, I gathered from my mother's stories that the headmistress disliked her as much as you seem to-" Emma blushed slightly, thankful for the darkness to hide it "-and she mistreated both my mother and my aunt terribly, until finally selling them out to the 'mean king', as my mother so astutely put it."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Over the next year and a half, Christine flourished. She was a skillful musician, both in theory and practice, and started to gain attention from people in high places. She sang at finer and finer events, although she also snuck into town to sing in less upper class areas; the music there was far different - far less refined - and Christine enjoyed the change. While her dance classes weren't comparable to her singing ones, Christine still loved them, especially now that she had a sister to share them with. She suspected that this development was less wonderful for their dance teacher, though, now that she had to tell them off for giggling in the corner. Her sister was by far the best part of school - even better than singing! - and they often stayed up late into the night, whispering stories and secrets to each other.

If there was anything that made life difficult for her, it was Miss Minchin, the headmistress. Christine had felt the woman's hatred from the second they met, and it had only gotten worse when Sari became her sister. Really, Christine thought that Miss Minchin should have been happy; the loss of her servant had meant more money coming to the school in the form of tuition and, increasingly, from Sari's dancing. Christine may have been the school's best singer, but Sari, while hopeless musically, was by far the school's best dancer. Still, nothing seemed to please Miss Minchin, and she always seemed to be looking for reasons to get Christine and Sari into trouble, delighting especially in using the strap.

The spat between her father's family and the mean king ended several months before Christine's sixteenth birthday. Her father had disappeared several months before and everyone had presumed him dead, which the headmistress gleefully took advantage of. For several months, Christine slept in the rat-infested basement and did chores with Sari, discontinuing her lessons but still singing and dancing at various events. Of course, any payment for those went to the headmistress. It was a dark time for Christine that she rarely spoke about even years later.

But then, one day, her father reappeared in spite of all the odds. A tearful reunion followed, and Sari rejoiced in meeting John and later Connor.

The period of happiness that followed was intense but brief. John, Connor, and Sari supported Christine at every event. Her teacher functioned as the closest thing to a mother that Christine had yet experienced. Even her headmistress was somewhat bearable after the return of her father, if only because John had threatened her so severely that she was pale for a week.

Everything changed in January 1792, three months after Christine turned sixteen, when Christine came home from her latest opera performance to find her father extremely ill.

"Connor, fetch a doctor. Sari, find more blankets," Christine said, already starting a fire to try to warm the room. Her father's skin was cool to the touch, pale, and covered in a thick layer of sweat.

"Christine," her father said quietly as Connor ran out into the night.

"Yes, papa?" She ran to her father's side. He looked as if he was halfway to his grave, and she had never been so frightened.

"It seems like when I left you here for school you were a little girl, and now that I'm back, you've somehow grown into a woman. I don't know how that managed to catch me by surprise," he chuckled weakly.

Christine clutched his hand and offered him a small smile.

"You look so much like your mother," he whispered, running his fingers weakly through one of her dark curls.

She watched a solitary tear trace its way down his cheek.

"I am so proud of you in every way, Christine. Never forget that," he said, voice shaking slightly. "But I may be proudest of how loving you are. I know how well you look after your family, and you're the best sister that Connor and Sari could have. You have a nurturing soul. Never lose that, my darling."

"Everything I do I've learned from you," Christine said, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping her father's sweaty face gently.

"Promise me that you'll always look after Connor. He's growing up, but he's still young and needs you more than ever."

"Looking after Connor isn't something that I'll need to do for some time yet-"

"Christine," her father interrupted gently.

Her chin started to tremble. "No, the doctor will be here soon and you'll be fine again. Fever always causes delusions, papa-"

"I know this is difficult, but you're a grown woman now, Christine. You have to promise me that you'll take care of your brother," he repeated, eyes soft and sad.

"I promise, papa, but you'll be fine," Christine insisted, finally giving into the tears that had been threatening to fall since she'd realized just how sick her father was.

"I love you," he whispered with a smile, closing his eyes and giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

When Sari came in with the sheets, she heard soft sobbing.

"Please, papa, I can't lose you twice. Please, come back," Christine sobbed softly into her father's still chest.

Sari dropped the laundry and ran to her friend, holding her head in her lap as she cried.

"Come back," Christine repeated, her voice breaking on each plea.

"Shh," Sari whispered, hugging her friend more tightly.

The doctor pronounced Jonathan Crewe dead, but, from what, he wasn't entirely sure.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"It was poison," Killian clarified, seeing Emma's thoughtful expression.

"How do you know?" Emma asked.

Killian winced. "I'll get to that."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Connor cried silently while the doctor was there, but, the second he left, he ran to Christine's arms and threw his arms around her.

The three siblings cried until dawn, when the door broke down with a crash.

They weren't the same mean men from her childhood, but Christine recognized the uniform. They all wore red, with a black hawk imprinted on the middle of each tunic. It was the standard of the mean king, Christine knew.

Christine stepped protectively in front of her siblings, grabbing her father's knife off the table beside him.

"What is your business here?" She asked coolly.

"Put it away, lass," the man at the front said.

"Answer the question," she said, "or I'll kill you."

The man raised his eyebrows at her mockingly. "You could kill me, but then you would also have to slay all of my men, and the men outside of your door. You're surrounded girl. If you surrender, neither you nor your brother nor your servant will be harmed," he promised.

Sari opened her mouth to retort, but Christine interrupted pointedly.

"Thank you for your service, Sari, but I now release you. Please take whatever money is in my father's satchel as a thank you," Christine said, shooting her sister a pleading glance. If they were only aware of her sibling by blood, she intended to keep it that way.

Sari left reluctantly, tears running rivers down her face.

"Put the knife down," the man ordered.

Christine dropped it and walked towards the mean men with her head held high, followed by her trembling little brother.

It was only when they took her brother away from her that she began to panic.

"No, you gave me your word that you wouldn't hurt us!" She snarled.

"We won't," the man agreed. "But our orders require you at the palace and your brother elsewhere. His life will be in no danger so long as you cooperate."

"Christine, don't let them take me!" Connor sobbed, trying to pull away from the much bigger men around him.

Christine rushed towards him and threw her arms around her shaking brother.

"Just follow any demands they have, Connor," she whispered. "I _will_ see you again soon. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you; I'll do anything to keep you safe. We just have to do what they want for the moment, alright? I love you."

Connor's crying would haunt her ears for weeks to come, as would her promise to her father that she had broken less than a day after his death.

When she finally reached the castle of the mean king, Christine felt nothing that she was expecting to. She was expecting to feel fear or dread. Instead, all she felt over her numbing grief was cold hatred. She almost looked forward to meeting this king. Perhaps, if she was fast enough, she'd even be able to strangle him before they killed her. Well, if they didn't have Connor, anyway. They had played the game well, and Christine was clever enough to know when she was in checkmate.

However, there was one thing that she didn't know and couldn't know regardless of how clever she was; within the next few months, she was going to meet her husband.

* * *

I'm sure you can guess what the next chapter will be about, but... yes, in the next chapter, the two people with the glorious genes that created Killian Jones will be meeting.

I'm sorry if this chapter feels a bit summary-ish. I didn't want to write ten pages on a backstory of someone in my head who may only interest me, which is why this is a bit more brief. It will get more detailed as we reach things that I think you'll find more interesting or relevant.

Oh, and just a side note if you're curious: Christine had two "fairytale" (it's probably more accurate to just say "fictional") influences that helped me to develop her. One of them should be fairly clear by the end of this chapter if you're familiar with the story. GoT is also an influence to a small degree (mostly just the through the political situation of the time), but I didn't want it to influence me to such a degree that this story ended up being a crossover! However, if the political situation looks a little bit familiar, that's why (and that's as far as that influence is going to go!).


	4. Chapter 4

It took less than two weeks of living in the palace for Christine to come to several conclusions.

Firstly, the king was an ass. King Clayton reminded Christine of one of the particularly ugly breeds of monkey in the Southern Isles that you could frequently find scratching inappropriately and flinging its own feces, which gave her some mild satisfaction. However, the realization that the king was an ill-tempered, impulsive brute with very little control over his own tongue helped her to realize that he was not her true concern.

No, the real problem was Lord Alasdair, the king's advisor. Just from looking at him, you could tell that he may not sit on the throne, but he was still the man with the power. He had a sort of evil charisma about him and a tendency to stare with cold grey eyes straight through a person, as if he was reading everything worth knowing and judging the person inadequate. He was a tall man and sturdily built, with greying brown hair and a face that was always clean-shaven. You could tell he cared a great deal about appearances, particularly by the always newly clean handkerchief that would appear out of his doublet if he had to touch anything that was not up to his standards of cleanliness. He smelled vaguely of lavender, and, as a result, the smell would remain unbearable to Christine for the remainder of her life.

After making this conclusion, she quickly drew several others. They had not killed her. They also seemed to have no intention of harming her; she was given her own rooms complete with beautiful clothes and servants, and treated quite well under the circumstances. The king dined with her about once a week along with Prince Julian, the queen, Lord Alasdair, and whoever else was unfortunate enough to receive an invitation from the soon-to-be-intoxicated king. From this and her brother's captivity, she had easily discerned multiple reasons for her captivity. The most likely was the old adage of keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Being in the palace meant that they could keep an eye on her and make sure that she made no move to reclaim her arguably rightful place on the throne. While keeping her brother elsewhere, she was unable to make any move against them or escape. If her father's adoptive family up North decided to stir up trouble, she would have no choice but to tell them to stand down, or else gamble away her brother's life. There was a possibility that they were trying to get her on their side, she supposed; perhaps they thought nice dresses could buy her loyalty. Christine would laugh at the thought if not for the constant images that often flashed through her mind of her brother, alone and scared. Since she hadn't seen him and her questions about him were answered with vague, non-answers, she could only imagine what was happening to him, and each thought was worse than the last. She was haunted not only during the day, but also at night, when she often woke in tears from her latest nightmare.

The last reason she could possibly think of for captivity was that they wanted her here for entertainment, since she sang for them most days of the week and spent much of her day learning music to perform. The king and his family showered her with praise for her voice, but their compliments fell on deaf ears. Lord Alasdair's one positive attribute was that he didn't deem this necessary; he reacted with cold calculation to each song just as he reacted to everything else in his life.

It was easy enough for Christine to tell that she was constantly tailed around the palace, and so she learned quickly that an escape attempt would be pointless. Each day had her feeling more and more stifled, until one day she decided to experiment. After a particularly good performance, she approached the drunken king.

"Would I be allowed to go into the city?" She asked, deciding there was no point in beating around the bush.

Lord Alasdair instantly appeared at the king's side. "Why?"

Christine swallowed hard. A million reasons quickly went through her head, but she knew that something like _to get away from you _wouldn't be received well.

At her hesitation, Lord Alasdair's eyes narrowed. "To stir up a rebellion perhaps?"

She shook her head quickly. "Of course not." She turned to the king, who was watching her with a slightly dazed grin. "It's just that I'm not used to such finery, your majesty. I am grateful for everything you've provided me, but I miss simplicity sometimes. Even if I could just go sing in a pub... I used to do that back home, and I miss it."

To her shock and to Lord Alasdair's obvious annoyance, the king agreed. That very night, she went to a pub in the surrounding city with a guard close on her heels. One audition later, she had a weekly job.

Several weeks after being given her new limited freedom, she walked into the pub to see someone that she didn't expect.

This someone had dark skin, large dark eyes framed by long eyelashes, long black hair that fell loosely around her shoulders...

Christine would recognize her sister anywhere.

"Sari!" She exclaimed, running towards her sister with open arms. Sari shrieked and dropped her drink, but didn't seem to care based on how tightly she hugged Christine.

"What are you doing here?" Christine demanded, suddenly fearful as she remembered the guard. She looked around nervously only to see that the guard was nowhere in sight, an occurrence that was becoming more common as time passed. They had watched and quickly realized that Christine did nothing but sit with a drink in the corner or sing, and she imagined it was a bit boring for them when they could be at a brothel or getting drinks themselves. She felt a twinge of worry that they would get into trouble, but she shoved it away angrily. If such evil people were punished, it shouldn't matter to her.

"I could ask the same of you! Did you escape? Should we run?" Sari whispered, eyes darting around nervously. Christine felt a twinge of sadness. Another reason for the guards' negligence was likely that they knew she couldn't run without killing her brother.

"God, no. I have a guard who follows me here," Christine said. "I'm just here to sing and retain my sanity."

"You'll have to tell me everything-" Sari said, eyes sad.

"Connor? Do you know where he is?" Christine interrupted, fear creeping into her tone in spite of herself.

"He's in a prison a few days ride to the East," Sari replied. "It looked like a high security place, so I didn't investigate much further before coming to try and locate you."

Christine bit her lip, suddenly feeling despairing. She'd hoped that he might be at another castle, perhaps with a relative of the king or a family particularly loyal to the crown. The news that he was in a prison implied far worse treatment. Christine had never felt more hopeless in her entire life.

"I'm certain that Connor will be fine. He's learned from the best, after all," Sari said gently.

"That's a little bit self-indulgent. You only knew the boy for a few months," Christine teased, attempting a smile but largely failing. Sari gave her a light shove in retribution.

"Oh, I have something to tell you!" She blurted, eyes lighting up. "I know it's not much, but I think it should make you at least slightly more cheerful. I was able to break back into our house after the soldiers left. I made sure papa had a proper burial-"

Christine winced. She'd been trying very hard to avoid thinking of her father, although it hadn't been very successful. Mostly, she just avoided thinking about it until she was in bed at night, when she was finally able to cry for as long as she needed to.

"That's not the cheerful part," Sari assured her. "The cheerful part is that I was able to smuggle out some of his belongings. I'm renting a room a few streets down, and I have them there. I was able to find the locket with your mother and father's portrait in it that papa meant to give to you for an eighteenth birthday present - sorry to spoil the surprise, but I see no point in secrecy anymore - and I also grabbed papa's violin. I know it was foolish of me to take that, of all things, but I just couldn't stand the thought of it being thrown away-"

Blinking back tears, Christine threw her arms around Sari's neck and pulled the taller girl into a tight hug. "Thank you," she whispered.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"I didn't see a locket. Was it lost?" Emma blurted before she could stop herself. Oh well, Killian was probably fully aware of the extent of her prying.

With a small smile, Killian shook his head. "No."

Carefully, he shifted and plunged his hand into a pocket of his coat, now sitting around Emma's shoulders. Emma watched, transfixed, as he pulled out a long, silver, ornate locket on a chain. It was circular and looked old, but also as though it had been kept in very good condition. In the middle, there was a small tree with swirling branches. Around the tree were three different borders: the outer and inner one covered in a delicate pattern and the middle an arrangement of tiny light blue jewels.

"I've kept it on my person ever since my mother's passing," he explained. "That tree is the emblem of my mother's side of the family, and the blue was their colour. It had been in her family for centuries by the time she got it, with new portraits inserted for each owner, as I understand."

"Can I hold it?" Emma asked.

She half-expected him to refuse, but, to her surprise, he passed it over without hesitation. Emma ran her fingers along the front, before flipping it open. On the right half of the locket, a woman with sharp, pointed features and intense blue eyes stared at her haughtily, with long strawberry blonde loosely arranged around her face. She was a beautiful woman, but Emma could definitely imagine her burning people at the stake. She saw the resemblance between her and the wedding portrait of Christine, though; both had the same pale skin, distracting eyes, and sharp features. Emma wondered if the official colour of Katie's family had anything to do with the eye colour that seemed to run in the family; Killian had clearly gotten that from his mother's side, along with most of his looks. She could see bits of his grandfather in him too, although less prominently. His grandfather sat with a small smile on the left side of the locket, with long, unruly black curls and intelligent grey eyes. Clearly, Killian's hair colour matched John's more closely. John looked much less severe than Katie, as if he actually had a sense of humour. For that reason, despite very different facial features, she could still sense something Killian-like about him.

"So, your past self had it in his pocket too?" Emma said wonderingly.

Killian nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable under Emma's gaze.

She passed the locket back a little bit reluctantly and watched as he gently placed it back in its pocket. Suddenly, she was struck with the urge to check the rest of his pockets. What else did he have in there?

"So, when did your mom meet your dad?" Emma asked quickly, before she gave into the temptation to pry further into his belongings.

Killian smiled.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The first night Christine wore the locket was on a particularly special night at the palace. The king was throwing a party to celebrate his own birthday, and Christine was, of course, expected to sing for all of the guests. Tonight, she wasn't just singing for dinner entertainment or an afternoon concert, either. Tonight, she was singing an entire opera that some knight had sworn he had traveled to another world to get. Christine had laughed for at least five minutes at the story because she considered the concept of "other worlds" to be the product of a few too many pints at a pub, but she had to admit that the music was thrilling. She'd had the chance to work with other people, which she had missed while singing solo, and, beyond that, she was singing the devilishly difficult part of a villain. This particular villain was called the "Queen of the Night", and while Christine was surprised she would be cast as royalty in an opera for the king, she enjoyed playing a villain. The Queen was wonderfully manipulative and dramatic, and, best of all, at least slightly mentally unstable. Christine hoped to give the king nightmares.

"I may need you to get me divine assistance for that one, though, Papa," Christine whispered to her locket as she tucked it down the front of her costume.

It was about halfway through the first aria that Christine noticed the man staring at her.

He was sitting between Lord Alasdair and the prince, and his eyes - a blue pale enough that they were almost grey - were wide and unblinking enough that she was almost concerned that he'd died and no one had noticed. However, much to her relief, he finally blinked. Perhaps he was staring to throw her off.

Well, two could play at that game.

Christine sang the remainder of her aria (mostly ridiculous, high, vocal acrobatic passages that sounded like maniacal - if very musical - laughter) staring down the man, who looked unbothered. At the end of her aria, he stood to applaud.

He stared at her through her second aria as well, and Christine stared back. If she hadn't been looking at only one person, she would have noticed that everyone else looked terrified. If anything, her impossibly blue eyes glaring at the man gave her character an even greater aura of mental instability.

She received a standing ovation during the bows by everyone and even had to come out and bow again. She smiled graciously as she did so, while secretly imagining running most of the people through with her knife.

She changed for the following ball with Carlotta, the singer who had played Pamina, the Queen of the Night's daughter. She was a young woman of no noble blood at all with a sweet voice and a sweet face to match, although she was several years older than Christine.

"They loved you," Carlotta said enviously as a servant laced up the back of her dress.

"I'd wager that they just loved the character and the music," Christine replied absently, rubbing off her horrendously thick character make-up.

The woman gave her a skeptical glance.

"Did you see that man staring at me for the entire performance? I confess that I was barely paying attention to the rest of the audience because I was so irritated," Christine said, now aggressively applying less dramatic make-up.

Her friend giggled. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately," groaned Christine. "Perhaps I ought to dance with him and step on his feet in vengeance."

"I wouldn't do that, Christine. He may be someone important."

"Even better," Christine muttered to herself, sweeping out of the room in a flutter of dark blue silk.

It took at least twenty minutes to pull herself away from all of the people congratulating her on her performance. When she finally escaped it was to walk directly into a girl hovering just behind her who must have been only about ten, although she was dressed as gracefully as any of the older ladies. Despite her elegant dress, however, the girl had plain features. Her eyes were grey, her hair a dull ashy light brown, and her lips thin. She looked uncomfortable, as if she wasn't quite aware of all of her limbs yet.

"Apologies, lady," she said, blushing.

"Apologies to you as well," Christine replied with a kind smile.

"I-I just wanted to say that I thought you were amazing. I wish I could sing like you," the girl blurted out shyly, staring at her toes.

Christine felt oddly flattered. "Well, I'm sure that you could if you worked at it."

The girl looked at her thoughtfully. "You're not nasty in real life?"

After a stunned silence, Christine's laughter bubbled over. "I sincerely hope not, but I suppose it depends on who you ask," she said finally, biting back her ridiculously large smile.

"Oh," the girl replied simply. "Isn't it terribly difficult to play someone that evil, then?"

Christine considered the question for a moment. "I'm not so certain that she is entirely evil. She lies, seeks revenge, and is horribly proud, but perhaps that's for a cause that she deems noble. Perhaps she really does truly just wish to save her daughter from being used by someone she views as evil. The evil that she does do, though, is easy to to act out. I just think of the evil people I've met in my life and take my cues from them. Or, if I'm in a particularly black mood, I can pretend that Sarastro is someone who has wronged me and imagine how much I would love to... cough on his breakfast."

The girl let out a loud snort, before flushing in embarrassment.

"That's actually very clever, lady," the girl said, looking up at Christine through her pale lashes.

"Coughing on an enemy's breakfast is clever indeed," a rich baritone voice said from behind Christine.

"Edward!" The girl said with a bright grin. "I got to meet the singer!"

"I can see that," the man chuckled, moving over to the girl's side.

"You," Christine blurted, now face-to-face with the staring man.

"Oh, yes, I apologize. I should have introduced myself. I'm Edward and this is my sister, Jayne. I have never been more impressed by a performance in my life. I wasn't even aware that it was possible to sing that high," he said with a charming smile.

"Well, it's simple, really. I just think of something frightening," Christine quipped.

"Like spiders?" Jayne asked eagerly, clearly unaware of the shift in Christine's mood.

"Or strange men who won't stop staring at you," Christine said, raising an eyebrow in challenge at the staring man.

The man laughed heartily. "That seems like a strange thing to think of... do you have much experience with that?"

"Not before tonight," Christine hinted.

Edward looked confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in understanding. "Oh, you meant... apologies, my lady. I was very entranced by your performance and may have stared as a result. I assure you it was not something I was aware of. As I said, I'd never seen a performance like that before. However, while I can apologize for causing your discomfort, I certainly can't apologize for staring."

"Why is that?" Christine asked with a frown.

"Because I got the most lovely woman on stage to stare back at me as a result," he said with a crooked grin.

Jayne looked back and forth between them in amazement and giggled as Christine raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed.

Not really knowing how to react, Christine turned back to Jayne. "What was your favourite part of the performance?"

"The part where you told Pamina to kill Sarastro!" Jayne exclaimed without hesitation, face lighting up. "Mother was so nervous that she had to start fanning herself!"

"I wish I'd seen that," Edward commented.

"I think she almost fainted when you hit that last high note," his sister added, shaking with suppressed laughter.

She launched into an impression of Christine singing and then her mother reacting that had Christine gasping for air as she laughed.

"Good lord, did I really look like that?" Christine giggled.

Jayne opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Simultaneously, Christine became aware of the scent of lavender. Whirling around, her breath hitched slightly as she took in Lord Alasdair.

"I hardly think this is an appropriate conversation, Jayne," he said coldly.

"Sorry, father," she replied, staring at her feet again.

Lord Alasdair turned to Edward, his eyes ice. "And you. You should know better than to let your sister associate with-"

"I beg your pardon?" Christine interrupted smoothly, eyes flashing.

"We were only telling the Lady Christine how much we enjoyed-" Edward began to protest.

"That is hardly the appropriate title to use for her," Lord Alasdair interrupted again. "And there is no reason to congratulate anyone for going onstage and making a spectacle of herself. Come along, Jayne."

Jayne turned to follow her father with a dejected glance towards Christine.

"I apologize for my father's rudeness," Edward said after a moment, shaking his head slightly in embarrassment.

Christine took a moment to really study him for the first time. He was a good head taller than she was, which wasn't difficult as she was a fairly average height. He was sturdily built with a serious face. If she were being completely unbiased, Christine would go so far as to say that he looked handsome.

The soft strains of a waltz began to play, and suddenly Edward was looking at her hopefully. "Allow me to make up for his rudeness with a dance?"

A mischievous smile did its own dance onto Christine's face. "Certainly."

Edward escorted her towards the other couples swathed in jewels and every colour of the rainbow before beginning to lead her through an elegant waltz. Or, rather, it would have been elegant, if Christine didn't have other plans. She kept a serene smile on her face as she stared into the eyes of her partner, deliberately stomping on his feet on nearly every other step.

It took only about a minute of pain for realization to dawn on Edward's face. "Either you're stepping on me on purpose, or you're the most atrocious dancer alive. Unless you prove otherwise, I may have to assume that it's the latter."

"Oh, really?" Christine challenged.

The following minutes of the waltz had the other couples in a frenzy as they attempted to avoid the graceful whirlwind of Edward and Christine. The only thing better than sabotaging the dance was proving her own skill. She had hoped to make her partner look pathetically inferior, but he was unfortunately a graceful dancer himself. Christine found herself breathlessly swept away in his arms multiple times as he led her through various lifts and twirls. When the music ended, Christine was almost disappointed.

"Well, my lady, I concede. You are a wonderful dancer... with a strange desire for wreaking havoc on unsuspecting partners," Edward said.

"You're fairly decent yourself... for a son of Lord Alasdair," Christine replied.

The corner of Edward's mouth twitched. "Perhaps you would do me the honour of dancing again with me?"

Christine pretended to look around. "Well, I seem to have a mysterious lack of suitors." She was honestly surprised that anyone was dancing with her at all. As a general rule, people seemed to be frightened of associating with her, most likely for fear of the axe if the king suspected them of treason.

"Very mysterious," Edward agreed. Christine (barely) resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the compliment. The etiquette of court could be extremely tedious and dull, and Christine had no love for false gallantry. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but sense that there was some sincerity behind Edward's words. She hoped she was imagining it.

"So... Edward," Christine tried the name out on her tongue as he pulled her into a second waltz. "Are you training to be a king's advisor, like your father?" Regardless of her intentions, she couldn't keep the scathing tone out of her voice.

Edward shook his head. "Once Julian is king, if he asks me to be his advisor, I may have to consider his offer; he's been my best friend since we were children. But, no, up until about a fortnight ago I was serving in the royal navy."

"Have you been to the Southern Isles?" Christine blurted without thinking.

Edward nodded. "Yes, it's a beautiful spot. That was one of the first voyages I went on. In fact, the king wanted us to find you and your family. Small world."

"Apparently," his partner replied coolly, stepping on her partner's foot deliberately.

"Incorrect response?" Asked Edward, with something like amusement in his eyes.

Christine just smiled politely at him. "There's nothing more beautiful than the ocean there," she said wistfully, ignoring his last remark. "Have you noticed how you can smell it over the entire island? The smell always reminds me of home."

"And how are you liking it here at the palace?" Edward inquired, suddenly looking serious.

"Well, there are worse prisons," Christine replied stiffly, thinking of Connor. "I certainly don't enjoy the uncertainty of my situation. Perhaps you can use your influence to ask your 'best friend' if he would either get on with things and murder me - like the rest of my family - or else let me go."

"Surely you can see why they can't, though," Edward said with real sympathy behind his words.

"No," Christine said stubbornly. "Considering that they never bothered to ask me if I was actually interested in their ridiculous throne."

"Aren't you?" Asked her partner, sounding genuinely confused at the implication.

"Of course I'm bloody well not interested," Christine exclaimed in exasperation. "That throne is a bloodbath. All it brings is death and destruction to all who claim it. I would be perfectly content to live out the rest of my life hidden away with my family. I know nothing of ruling a country, and any attempt to claim my birthright would only lead to the death and suffering of its people, possibly even a civil war. I certainly don't want their blood on my hands. Perhaps you can tell _that_ to your friend."

Edward was looking at her strangely. Whatever he saw caused his face to soften. "I don't suppose that he would listen."

"No, I know he wouldn't," Christine sighed.

Edward considered her for a moment more, eyes staring straight through her once again.

"Could you possibly stop staring at me?" She demanded, attempting to ignore the strange fluttering in her stomach at his gaze.

"You're not what I was expecting," he said finally, with a small smile.

"And what were you expecting?" Christine raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Someone a bit more... threatening, I suppose," he replied.

"I _am_ threatening," Christine said haughtily. "If you can't see that, then you are simply a fool."

Edward shrugged. "Well, perhaps you can be threatening, but not out of any inherently evil qualities."

"Your side is the evil side," Christine corrected. "But you're not what I would have expected either."

Edward smiled at this, as if she had just given him a particularly kind compliment.

Christine danced with Edward many more times that night, finding that their steps seemed to fall into an easy rhythm that still allowed for banter. While she tried to maintain a hold on the automatic loathing she'd had for him upon sight, she was finding it more and more difficult.

That night, as Christine climbed into bed, she had never been more conflicted. Thoughts of her conversation with Edward kept floating through her brain. Just from his loyalties, she would assume that he was fully capable of manipulation, but there was something very open about his face. His emotions seemed to sit there like the words of a book, just waiting to be read by any stranger. It was oddly endearing.

Christine pushed away the thoughts forcefully. It would be an insult to her father and mother's memory to befriend someone whose interests were so opposite to her own. With any luck, Edward would be on the next ship leaving port.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and my extra thanks to those of you who have followed, favourited, and reviewed!

Again, I'm sorry for not responding to reviews yet. It seems to take a while for the ones that get emailed to me to actually appear on the site (particularly from guests), and I don't want to respond to something that is "invisible", so I may have to wait a bit still! Just know that I've seen them and they all bring a smile to my face. :)


	5. Chapter 5

The Past

* * *

"So, when's the wedding?"

Christine glared at her sister, taking a long drink from her glass of whiskey. Rehearsals had been so exhausting that she hadn't been able to see Sari for several weeks, and then her performance at the king's birthday had been such a success that she'd been singing nightly. Annoyingly, during that time, Edward had shown no signs of leaving and always seemed to be following her, with his eyes if not his body. He talked to her whenever he had a chance, regardless of how coolly Christine responded.

When she'd finally been given a night off from performing, she'd tried to escape from the palace for some much-needed normalcy with her sister only for Lord Alasdair to tell her that she was no longer allowed to leave.

"Why?" She'd asked, trying very hard not to cry.

His eyes were cold as he surveyed her. "Because I was able to convince the king that it was a mistake to let you out in the first place."

For a few days, she'd taken to circling angrily through the palace, taking advantage of the only freedom she had left. At night, she cried. Even singing couldn't bring her any solace. What would her sister think when she waited in the pub night after night and Christine didn't show up? How would Christine stand not being able to see her sister anymore?

She knew it was wrong of her, but she also found herself treating Edward more caustically than usual. Sometimes she felt the urge to apologize, but then she remembered who his father was and bit her tongue.

Then, one day, he pulled her aside during one of her walks.

"You know, when I was a boy, Julian and I used to explore the castle-"

Christine rolled her eyes.

"It was a great game for us. You'd be surprised how many secrets a palace has for someone to discover: secret rooms, secret passageways." He glanced deliberately at a grate at his feet.

Christine felt her heart start to beat faster, but she quickly chastised herself. It wasn't like she could trust any son of Lord Alasdair, and anyway, if she was caught, what would that mean for Connor? But she felt like a plant that had been kept away from the sunshine too long and was starting to wither away. The thought of another day in the palace was unbearable.

At her hesitation, he added quietly, "And maybe I could ensure that no one missed you, this once. Just don't be too long."

"How can I trust you?" She'd asked just as quietly.

He looked at her seriously. "I won't turn you in. I swear it on my life."

"And what good is your word to me?"

He had no answer to that, but he did look distinctly put out.

"I have a brother to think of," she whispered.

"And I have a sister," he said. "I can't imagine what it would be like to lose her. I would never put you through that."

She folded her arms. "Why?"

He smiled crookedly. "Because I like you."

Christine hated that she believed him, but she did. She believed all of it. And that was how she found herself hurrying through a dark tunnel with a pounding heart and guilt laying heavily on her heart.

"I have no interest in the man at all," Christine insisted. "Although I quite like his sister. It's a pity that the child will no doubt grow up to be as terrible as the rest of that family. They were instrumental in killing my grandparents, perhaps even more than the king himself. I believe it was Lord Alasdair himself who killed my grandmother and all of my mother's siblings while the king took care of my grandfather."

"I think I've heard that before," Sari said thoughtfully. "Can you imagine, murdering children!" She shuddered at the thought, pulling her grey shawl more tightly around her shoulders, dark eyes wide.

"Heartless bastard," Christine replied harshly, taking another gulp of the whiskey.

Sari glanced around nervously. "I'd be a bit careful, Christine. You wouldn't want the wrong people to hear you."

In response to her sister's skeptical look, Sari continued in hushed tones. "From what I understand, the political situation is becoming unstable again. There are rumours of resistance to the king's rule, and rumour has it that the resistance wants to put you on the throne."

Christine choked on her whiskey. Once she had recovered from her coughing fit, she stared at her sister as if she'd grown an extra head.

"Best of luck with that," she gasped finally.

Frowning, Sari leaned forward to grasp Christine's hand firmly. "Just... be careful. This is not a good time for anyone to hear you say anything that could be viewed as treachery."

"I will be," Christine promised, heart sinking with dread at the news.

"It may have been a mistake to bring you back to the palace," Sari said. "Now people have remembered that you exist."

As Christine returned to the palace, she couldn't help shivering regardless of the slightly warmer April weather. She wrapped her dark cloak more tightly around herself as she approached the palace. Was it her imagination, or were there more guards around the walls than usual? Feeling uncharacteristically nervous, Christine wandered over to the side of one of the walls, where the loose grate that opened into the tunnel that she used to leave the palace was located. To her surprise, it was guarded.

Fury ran through her. She was angry at Edward, certainly, but she was most angry with herself. How stupid she'd been to trust him!

Swallowing hard, Christine raised her hood, hoping they hadn't already recognized her. The palace was in the middle of the city, so hopefully they had assumed she was just an ordinary peasant. But... was it her imagination, or were they eyeing her suspiciously?

Just as she was starting to truly panic, Edward himself emerged from the tunnel and began to talk with the guards. Christine watched for several minutes from the shadows before Edward noticed her. When he did, he gave her a small nod before glancing down another alleyway and muttering something to the men beside him. The five of them moved in that direction, and Christine took the opportunity to slip down into the tunnel, weak with relief.

She was three quarters of the way through the tunnel when she heard footsteps slapping against the stone coming towards her. Christine froze and braced herself, waiting for the inevitable flicker of light from a torch or clanking of armour. Instead, a small figure crashed into her headlong.

In the dim light of the tunnel, she could only see that he was a child about Jayne's age with light brown hair and brown eyes. He was almost hyperventilating from fear.

"Please, let me go, miss," he begged, voice cracking.

"If you're evading capture, this is not the way to go. There are guards at the end of the tunnel," Christine said.

The boy dropped into a ball on the floor and started crying quietly while Christine considered him.

"They're g-going to kill m-me," he sobbed.

In that moment, Christine made a decision. She wondered if this is what her uncles and aunts had looked like when Lord Alasdair had murdered them. She certainly wouldn't let something like that happen again, if she could help it. Besides, her mind had immediately flown to her brother. If Connor escaped, she hoped someone would be brave enough to save him.

"No, they're not," she said firmly. "At least not if I can help it. But we're going to have to find another way out."

The boy looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe his ears. "You don't want me dead?"

"Good lord, of course not," she promised. The very fact that he was apparently an enemy to the king made him a friend, regardless of whatever "crime" the king imagined him guilty of.

She glanced behind her, suddenly worried that Edward would try to catch up with her. "We have to keep moving. There's likely a guard close behind me, and our first job is to lose him," Christine said, helping the boy up. She began to run, holding the boy's hand to ensure that they stayed together.

The entrance to the tunnel opened up just outside of the kitchens. At this hour, there were no servants there, but Christine doubted that the empty hall would remain guard-less for long.

"When I open the grate, it's going to make a loud noise," Christine warned the boy, who winced in response. "The second I stand up, I want you to get underneath my cloak and hide behind me. If we're lucky, no one will look too closely." _And see a boy-shaped lump_, Christine thought. This plan was looking more and more suicidal by the second.

As she had predicted, seconds after she had replaced the grate and the boy was hiding behind her, the sound of footsteps echoed from around the corner.

Christine crossed her arms and waited.

When the guards appeared, panting, she only raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing here?" One of the guards demanded.

"Is it a crime to go for a walk when one cannot sleep due to the horrendous racket?" Christine asked, injecting as much venom into each word as she could. Some of the men looked guilty.

"There's a boy in the palace. Have you seen him?"

Christine looked pityingly at the group. "There are many boys in the palace. You may need to give me specifics."

"You would recognize him as being out of place. If you see him, be sure to report it. He's very dangerous," the first guard spoke again.

"A child?" Christine said with a mocking smile. "Not to worry, I'm sure that I would be more than capable of handling myself against someone half my size."

The guard scowled, but nodded at the others to turn around. Christine breathed a sigh of relief the second they moved around the corner.

"You can come out now," Christine assured her charge, who was white as a sheet as he emerged from underneath the heavy black fabric. "I think our best chance will be to get into the courtyard and hide in a supply cart. Follow my lead and stay hidden."

The next few minutes were perhaps the most terrifying of Christine's life. She and the boy had to backtrack multiple times when they heard soldiers moving towards them and often had to rely on shadows or shoddy hiding places. When they finally reached the entrance to the courtyard, Christine felt her heart sink. There were several guards milling around, clearly on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. Still, they were running out of options. If this plan didn't work, Christine wasn't certain of what to do. That meant that this plan _had_ to work, regardless of risk.

"Follow me," Christine whispered. She pulled her hood over her face and crouched down to run. She kept close to the stones of the castle for as long as she could, where the moon created quite a heavy shadow. However, eventually, she held her breath and sprinted quietly to a cart with the boy at her heels. She collapsed behind it, her heart pounding. The boy was shaking beside her. Still, she hadn't heard the soldiers sound any alarm, so perhaps it was time to plan her next move.

Christine carefully positioned herself into a crouch behind the wagon and peered over the top, only to see a man coming toward her.

Edward.

Christine cursed quietly under her breath, dropping down and beckoning the boy over. She threw part of the cloak around him so that he was at least partially hidden, before making herself as small as possible. She closed her eyes and listened to the quiet approaching footsteps, barely daring to breath. They were only coming closer. She could only pray - something that she hadn't done since her father had been presumed dead for the first time - that the steps would pass right by without the man noticing the two dark figures on the ground.

The footsteps continued, slow and methodical. Then they stopped. Christine opened her eyes to see that Edward had paused, staring hard in her direction. Christine felt her stomach sink as he moved towards them, raising his sword in a practiced motion.

"Show yourself," he ordered coldly.

Christine hesitated, but had no choice but to pull the hood from her face. Edward's expression changed from one of hard determination to surprise and dread. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Christine cut him off.

"Edward, listen to me. This is wrong," she whispered urgently, nodding towards the cowering figure still half-hidden beneath her cloak.

"You just had to get involved, didn't you? Christine, his life isn't something that you should be concerning yourself with at this second. They could kill you for this!" He hissed back.

"His life is absolutely my concern. Giving him up would be murder," she argued, eyes pleading.

"Not if letting him live would have worse results," Edward said grimly, looking at the boy warily.

"What could a child possibly do?" She exclaimed.

"Christine, he appeared here this morning as if from thin air. There is a woman in the king's service with the power of prophecy, and she claims that this boy will do terrible things in the future. He must have terrible magic if he can just appear in a guarded castle. Who knows what he'll do once he's grown," there was something almost like regret in Edward's voice, but his eyes were hard.

"Do you honestly believe that the future is written for us? I would rather trust the choices of a boy who is not yet grown than the insane babbling of a witch. How is it justice to try a child for a crime he has yet to commit, if he commits it at all? This is not a matter of justice. This is a simple matter of right and wrong. If you kill this boy, it will be murder, and his blood will be on your hands," Christine said, pulling the shaking child closer towards her in an attempt at comfort.

"I can let you go before I turn him, but that is all I can do. Anything else is treason," Edward said simply, refusing to meet her eyes.

Christine lifted her chin stubbornly. "I'm not going anywhere," she replied quietly. "Treason to the crown is far better than betraying your morals. Edward, the night we met, I told you that you weren't what I expected. I believed that you might actually have some shred of honour. Please don't prove me wrong, I beg of you."

For once, Christine could not read what was on Edward's face. His jaw was set and still, with only his eyes revealing the multitude of thoughts whirring beneath the surface. For a moment, Christine almost believed that he would change his mind.

"Julian!" Edward shouted, moving to the front of the wagon.

Christine felt tears welling behind her eyelids as the boy let out a soft sob.

"Shh," Christine soothed, stroking his hair with trembling hands and cursing herself for being so idiotic. Anyone from the Alasdair family would be heartless and traitorous, and she'd known it from the start. Allowing herself to even entertain the idea that Edward was any different had been childish. That didn't mean that it didn't hurt.

"You found him?" Came the higher voice of the prince as he jogged towards his friend.

"Yes," Edward replied. Then, Christine felt someone rummaging in the wagon. "Here."

There was a noise of something smacking against flesh and a loud "oof".

"I could have you arrested for that!" The prince laughed.

"I was just having a little bit of fun. There's nothing here and I'm frankly exhausted from wandering around looking for a child who probably magicked himself out the same way he got in," Edward drawled, picking up something else from the cart.

"Don't you dare-" Smack! "Edward!"

Something came soaring over the wagon, clearly thrown from the prince's hand. It landed with a splat on the dirt a few meters away from Christine. From the smell, Christine guessed that it was an extremely mutilated tomato. It was nearly unrecognizable now after its second meeting with the ground.

"Missed by a mile! You've grown soft while I've been away," Edward chuckled.

"You are bloody lucky that you're my best friend, Edward. I should put you in the stocks-" Julian made another noise of disgust as another tomato made contact with the royal body. "Hanged!" He corrected.

Edward was now leaning against the wagon for support as he laughed. Julian was laughing too, making his way over to his friend.

"I gather you're right, you know," he commented. "About the boy? My father can be so unreasonable."

"You said it, not I," Edward agreed. "If-oof!"

Julian let out a burst of laughter. "How's that for growing soft?"

"Well, you were standing right beside me," Edward pointed out, and Christine could hear the grin in his voice. "I'd be willing to bet that the lads at the gate are bored as well. What do you say we each take half and finish this properly? My army against yours."

"Challenge accepted!" Julian declared gleefully. "But _I_ get to choose who is on my team."

"Aye, you could use the advantage," agreed Edward. "I'll come along with the wagon. I'd best warm up my arms, not that I truly need an advantage."

"No, you just want something to blame when you lose," Julian countered, already jogging away.

A few seconds later, Edward reappeared in front of Christine, tomato colouring half of his face.

"Can you and the lad walk under the wagon while I pull it? The guards will be distracted by Julian, so you'd best take advantage of that and run the second we're outside the walls," Edward warned, rubbing at slime on his face with his sleeve.

"Thank you," Christine said seriously, trying to pour her sincerity into the two words.

"Don't get yourself caught," was her only reply.

"Before we go, do you happen to have a spare knife?" Christine asked.

"Do you know how to use it?"

"No, I want it to look at because it's pretty._ Of course I know how to use it_," she said impatiently.

Edward's mouth quirked as he tossed her one of the knives from his belt.

Getting out of the city was remarkably easy after that. By the time the sun was beginning to rise, Christine and the boy were already walking rapidly through the woods to the North of the city. The boy was looking more and more exhausted, though, which had Christine wondering if they ought to stop. Still, she was beginning to worry. What would happen when they discovered her missing the next morning? Would they kill her brother? She really needed to get back soon, but she couldn't very well abandon the boy.

Christine was so lost in her thoughts that it took her an embarrassing amount of time to realize that she was being followed. There was someone only meters behind her in the trees, stepping on twigs and leaves and making no effort to be quiet in his haste. She probably could have heard whoever it was from miles away if she'd been listening, but now she would guess he was only seconds away from sight.

Quickly, Christine pulled the boy to some thick brush on her right and pushed him down into it.

"Stay down," she hissed.

The second he was hidden, someone came crashing into her, knocking her to the ground. One of her arms was trapped so that she couldn't reach her knife, so she flailed around and picked up the first thing that came into reach: a rock. With a cry, she brought it down without hesitation onto whoever was on top of her, knocking him out cold.

With a grunt, she pushed him off of her. He was considerably heavier than he was. Now that her hands were free, she was able to push the hair out of her eyes that essentially had made her blind during the attack only to see...

Edward.

"Bloody hell," Christine muttered, rolling her eyes up to the fading stars.

He came to with a groan a short time later to find a pair of curious brown eyes and guilty blue ones staring down at him.

"What was that for?" He moaned, rubbing his head.

"You attacked me and I reacted," Christine defended herself tersely even as she knelt down to look at him carefully. "Follow my finger."

"What?" Edward exclaimed.

"No concussion," Christine muttered. "That's good," she added upon seeing his incredulous expression.

The boy looked from Edward to Christine in amazement. "Are you married?" He asked curiously.

"No!" Christine cried in disgust as Edward closed his eyes for a moment, possibly wondering what on earth he'd gotten himself into.

"So, where are we taking you, lad?" Asked Edward in an attempt to change the subject, looking at the boy cautiously as if he were nervous that he might grow another head.

"I live with... some spinsters to the North of here," he explained.

Christine became increasingly aware of Edward's eyes studying her. She should've been used to it by now, but she still found the way he looked at her disconcerting.

"I bribed your servants," Edward said. "They are now telling the king that you have scarlet fever, a theory which I doubt anyone of importance will want to verify themselves."

"Thank you," Christine said, surprised at the gesture.

"If I am committing treason, I might as well do it properly." He smiled crookedly, before turning to the boy. "Well, let's get you back to your spinsters, lad."

The boy nodded with a hesitant smile before looking to Christine as though for protection. He clearly wasn't certain of what to think of Edward just yet. Edward's smile faded and he knelt down to the boy's level.

"I won't hurt you, boy. I just expect that you'll return the favour and not prove us wrong for helping you. That means no dark magic, alright?"

The boy looked utterly perplexed, but nodded anyway. Christine held back an unladylike snort. The poor child probably didn't even know a thing about dark magic.

"What your name, little one?" She asked gently, suddenly remembering that she still didn't know who the child she'd risked her life for was.

The boy smiled shyly up at her. "Rumplestiltskin."

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Don't get too excited, but this chapter includes slightly more adult content. There's nothing graphic, but there are some implications of sexual activity. If that's going to bother you, I would suggest that you don't read this one!

Thanks for reading!

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Rumplestiltskin?" Emma breathed, absolutely floored.

Killian nodded stiffly, a myriad of emotions flying across his face before settling into a grimace.

"Does he know?" She asked next, feeling as though she must have passed into the Twilight Zone.

"No," Killian said, staring absently at his hook.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Demanded Emma. "Did you know who he was when you met?"

"I recognized the name the first time Milah spoke of him, yes. When he... murdered her, I confess that it never came to mind simply because I was too panicked. I saw her heart in his hand and all rational thought was impossible. I doubt that him knowing who my parents were would have stopped him, but still, the thought of what might have been has preyed on my mind for longer than I care to remember."

"And after that?" Emma prompted softly, trying to get him away from whatever thoughts were twisting his face into a mask of regret and pain.

"Well, it seemed like bad form, to speak plainly. Even if it weren't, it would have been useless," Killian said. "I doubt that the crocodile has a conscience to be tortured by, and, at any rate, my parents' actions were not my own. Some wounds run too deeply to be healed by some tenuous past debt."

"I'm sorry," Emma replied, not sure of what else to say.

Killian shook his head. "There's no need to be. My mother wouldn't have been who she was if she'd let him die, and I loved her for who she was. In fact, my parents may never have fallen in love if not for their combined efforts to save Rumplestiltskin. Perhaps they would have lived to see grandchildren with their different lovers, and I would never have existed. Interesting how fate works, isn't it? She's a miserable creature who rejoices in torment. If my parents hadn't saved him, I'd never have been born. Milah may have lived, but Bae may never have gone to Neverland. If he had died two hundred years ago, Henry never would have existed. It seems that magic isn't the only thing that comes with a price."

Emma's head spun as the full impact of his words hit her. If Christine had made one different choice, if she'd ignored her own merciful instincts in the interests of self-preservation, a million lives would have been different. Would her own parents have existed? Would she? How could a single choice made by a single girl - almost a child, really - impact so many lives in the future? The whole concept was mind-boggling.

"Anyway, back to our dear crocodile," Killian continued with a sigh, eyes fading into some tenuous past that only he could see once again.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"_Sweeter than roses, or cool evening breeze_

_On a warm flowery shore, was the dear kiss,_

_First trembling made me freeze,_

_Then shot like fire all o'er._

_What magic has victorious love!_

_For all I touch or see since that dear kiss,_

_I hourly prove, all is love to me._" *

As she finished her song, voice vibrating pleasantly through the wide open space of the woods, Rumplestiltskin let out a low whistle.

"How do you fit so many notes on one word?" He asked incredulously, eyes huge.

"Practice," Christine replied with a shrug, struggling to keep the spring out of her step. It felt amazing to be on her own again and to be_ outside_, without guards or concerts or stifling rooms. There was something about being outdoors that just made her want to sing.

The boy looked at her skeptically and she couldn't help but laugh. "I'm quite serious. You have to learn to control your airflow and-"

Edward let out a groan. "Please, no technicalities," he begged jokingly. "They'll be wasted on those of us with no musical inclination."

"We should reach your spinsters later before noon, I imagine." Christine abruptly changed the subject, shooting Edward a disapproving look.

Rumplestiltskin nodded, looking put-out. Edward immediately looked to Christine to interpret the emotions of the child for him, something that had become habit over the past few days. Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead looking down at the boy kindly. "Is something troubling you?"

The boy shrugged, shuffling his feet a little bit on the dirt path. "The last time I was here, I had a father," I sniffed, rubbing at his eyes with his appallingly filthy sleeve.

Christine stopped short. "My goodness, why didn't you say something?" She asked.

Rumplestiltskin shrugged, staring at his feet.

"I lost my father a short time ago as well," Christine said sympathetically, pulling the boy into her arms. "It's not easy, is it?"

"Was yours murdered as well?" Edward asked, resting his hand gently on the Rumplestiltskin's shoulder.

Christine brought her head up with a snap to stare at him with narrowed eyes, but Edward didn't notice.

"He abandoned me," Rumplestiltskin sniffed. "He doesn't want me. And he took my doll."

"Oh, sweetheart," Christine murmured, forcing herself to return her attention to the distraught boy.

"Do you think that you... would you maybe... would you want to stay with me?" Rumplestiltskin asked, staring up at her with wet eyes. "I never had a mother before, and you're much nicer than my father," he added quickly, glancing at Edward.

Christine's stomach sank. "Don't you like the spinsters?" Asked Edward, looking as lost as she felt with this new development.

Rumplestiltskin nodded. "Yes, but if you both stayed, then I'd have a _real_ family with a mother and a father."

Christine looked helplessly at the wet face in front of her, trying to push back the repulsion she felt at being lumped together with Edward after what he'd just said.

"I'm afraid I can't," she told him quietly. "I'm sorry, but I have to go back; I have a brother whose life depends on it."

"It sounds as though your spinsters love you very much," added Edward awkwardly.

It took a while to soothe Rumplestiltskin, but eventually the tears stopped and the trio were able to continue their journey. When they dropped off the boy in front of his house, Christine had to blink back tears of her own.

"You stay out of trouble," Edward said gruffly, ruffling his hair affectionately.

After that, Rumplestiltskin reluctantly entered his house. Christine felt remotely better listening to the faint dialogue wafting out from the house, assured that the boy was in good hands.

"Shall we head back?" Edward asked.

Christine nodded stiffly and turned back towards the forest. For the next hour, Edward attempted to make conversation, only growing more and more confused as she answered with angry monosyllables.

"Did I do something that upset you?" He finally demanded. "I thought that we were-"

"Friends?" Christine whirled around to face him.

"Are you crying?" Edward asked in surprise.

"No, I stopped about a minute ago," she snapped, rubbing at her red eyes violently.

"You're upset to part with the boy?" Edward guessed, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. When she flinched away, his brow furrowed. "What?"

"Was my father poisoned?" She demanded, stepping back to look him fully in the eye.

Confusion crossed Edward's face before giving way to realization. "You didn't know?"

"Did you murder him?"

Edward stared at Christine. Her eyes were hard, but her lower lip was trembling in a rare sign of vulnerability.

"No, I didn't," Edward sighed. "'I swear to you on my life that I was not involved in any way. However, I was aware of the plan."

"I don't understand. Why would they kill him? He didn't do anything but protect us," Christine whispered, hugging herself.

"Because anyone on your side is seen as a threat, and because hurting a loved one is the easiest way to hurt an enemy," Edward explained, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"So his death was my fault," Christine faltered.

"No, it wasn't," Edward said firmly, pulling her into a tight hug. After a moment's hesitation, she hugged him back.

"You're right. It was the murderer's fault," Christine sighed. "I miss him," she added in a small voice.

"You loved him very much," Edward realized.

"Of course I did. Don't you love your father?"

Edward hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I do. He's never been a very affectionate father and I'll admit that his lust for power often leads him to forget his honour, but I still love him in some ways."

"I loved my father in every way," Christine replied. "Well, not quite _every_ way," she conceded, pulling away from Edward to shoot him an almost wicked grin.

Edward laughed heartily. "I should hope not."

"Thank you," Christine said suddenly.

Her companion tilted his head in a silent question.

"For telling me. I... I'm glad to know," she said. "Maybe now I can feel some closure."

"I hope so. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry that he died," Edward told her seriously.

She smiled sadly. Apologies wouldn't bring her father back. However, coming from Edward, the sentiment meant a lot.

"I think I need a happy song," Christine decided, pushing away the sadness to deal with at a more convenient date. There were few things she despised more than feeling sad.

"_I was born of Geordie parents, one day when I was young_

_That's how the Geordie dialect became me native tongue_

_That I was a pretty baby, me mother she would vow_

_The girls all ran to kiss me, well I wish they'd do it now._

_Oh I wish they'd do it now, oh I wish they'd do it now_

_I've got itches in me britches-_" **

Edward stopped dead in his tracks, his face turning red as maple leaves in autumn.

"What, did you think that I only sing those horrid posh court songs?" Christine giggled.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Why does it not surprise me that your mother sang that sort of song?" Emma said drily.

Killian shot her - as he would say - a "devilishly handsome" smirk.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Oh, good lord. You're a virgin, aren't you?" Christine asked, suppressing a smile. "How old are you?"

If possible, Edward turned even more red. "Nineteen last month."

"Happy belated birthday," Christine replied, a grin bursting through in spite of herself.

"You're not," Edward concluded after a moment, looking surprised.

"Pardon?"

"A virgin," he was more and more sure of himself the wider Christine's smirk spread.

"Perhaps not," she conceded, eyes twinkling in merriment.

"When?" Blurted Edward.

"On my sixteenth birthday," she said matter-of-factly. "With the tenor I was singing opposite. Oh, don't look so upset-"

Edward's face now looked like it had reached boiling point. "I'm not-"

"It was at least partially out of pity. The poor man cracked on opening night. Sounded like he'd fallen off the bloody stage."

"You made love to someone for the first time out of pity?" Edward asked incredulously. Christine realized at that point that Edward's charm was not entirely trained courtly mannerisms. The poor man was clearly a hopeless romantic.

"Why, thinking of giving it a try? You'll have to try pretty hard to beat the embarrassment of dear Raoul-"

"I'm sure that I could with high enough stakes," he countered, avoiding her eyes.

"And what would you consider the height of these stakes?" Christine replied, stopping to shoot him a look up through her eyelashes.

"Far too high to risk embarrassing myself until your image of me was beyond repair," Edward murmured, face still faintly red. "No, with stakes as high as these, I would far rather earn your love through an act of courage."

"Like what?" She breathed. Their faces were now only inches apart.

"Like this," he replied, leaning down to press his lips against hers.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma was blushing, and it was embarrassing the hell out of her. "Okay, first of all, there is no way that your parents told you this. And second of all, I really, really don't want to hear about your parents having-"

"Not to worry, Swan, they only shared a kiss," Killian said, amused.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Not bad for a virgin," Christine gasped, rummaging for her abandoned clothes-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Killian!"

* * *

The Past

* * *

"You may be a virgin, but you've kissed before," Christine smiled against his lips.

"A kitchen maid back home," he agreed. "Father sent her away after he caught us kissing a few weeks later."

"Mmm," Christine hummed, for once feeling quite comforted by having his eyes glued on her own. Up close, they weren't just blue-grey. They had flecks of gold and brown and a rim of dark blue like a stormy ocean. She could see every detail of his face, including a few freckles she'd never seen before.

"What?" He asked with a smile.

"You're beautiful," she breathed.

"That's what I'm supposed to say, I believe," he murmured, kissing her again. She found herself sagging against him, feeling safer than she had since she'd left the Southern Isles.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I get the idea. What happened next?"

* * *

The Past

* * *

The return journey was a pleasant one, full of polite caresses and stolen looks. Christine snuck back into the palace with Edward's help, but then, after a tender kiss goodbye, he left again. They both agreed that it would be suspicious if they came back to the palace at exactly the same time. Edward's cover story was that he was searching for Rumplestiltskin in nearby villages and woods. He decided that he would "continue" doing that for another week or so.

A few days later, Christine emerged looking flushed and thin, but, as the doctor assured the king, no longer contagious. No one questioned her story, although Christine frequently felt the weight of Lord Alasdair's gaze. She wasn't certain whether he didn't believe her, though, or whether she'd just forgotten how disdainful his looks were.

It was significantly harder to hide her affection for Edward when he returned than she'd anticipated. Over dinner, she caught his eye and started to blush. Fortunately, the king only remarked that he believed she'd had too much wine. However, Edward's smiling also caught his eye.

"I'm just pleased to be back in your presence, your grace," he said with a polite incline of his head.

Christine had to fake-choke on her chicken to cover her ungainly laughter.

Then, of course, she'd had to sing. Everyone remarked that they had never heard her sound better. Edward raised his glass to her in a silent toast, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

As she was walking back to her room, strong arms pulled her into an alcove. Suddenly, she was swept into a soft, delicious kiss.

"Did you miss me?" Edward asked, his whisper dancing across her face.

"Edward, you have to be more careful! Someone could see," she laughed.

Footsteps approached the alcove.

"How dare you insult me. I'm certainly far more hygienic than you, _sailor_," Christine hissed.

The footsteps passed by.

"That's a good strategy, actually," Edward murmured, pulling her closer towards him. "We could have a great deal of fun with this."

Fun was perhaps an understatement.

"I would challenge you to a duel, but I fear that I am too much of a gentleman to insult a lady's intelligence by implying that she had a chance of beating me. Perhaps a duel of wits?"

"I would agree, but, as a general rule, I find it to be bad form to engage in a duel of any sort with an unarmed man."

"After living so long in the jungle, it must be difficult for you to do such things as actually wear shoes, bathe, or dance. Tell me, was it hard to learn when you returned to civilization?"

"It was relatively easy, considering that there are men like you who could make an inebriated bear look graceful."

By day they insulted each other with glee, only pulling each other into the occasional corner for a kiss, while by night they complimented each other on their wit. Edward would sneak into Christine's room nightly for them to talk about everything, and it seemed that they only grew closer the more time they spent together. Christine discovered that Edward was not only charming, but kind, honourable, and intelligent. She was continually amazed by his capacity to listen and even open up her mind to possible alternative ways of thought when they broached a topic she was already decided upon. For his part, Edward enjoyed Christine's vivacity, kindness, and strong opinions. Something about two people from such different backgrounds allowed for an intellectual relationship of continual growth, which was perhaps why Christine found herself falling in love far more quickly than she imagined.

Perhaps that could explain why, on her seventeenth birthday, she took a calculated risk.

That night, as Edward snuck into her room, he found Christine waiting with her cloak already on.

"For my birthday, I want you to meet someone," she said brusquely, turning him around. "Here, wear this." She tossed him a second cloak.

Edward's brow furrowed in confusion.

His confusion only grew as they left the palace.

"Is this a kind way of telling me that you have a mistress?" Edward joked, mouth twitching.

"Hush," she said.

Her sister was exactly where she was expecting, sitting at their usual table. She'd clearly been expecting Christine as well, because a cup of whiskey was already sitting in her usual spot. Christine couldn't help but admire how beautiful her sister had grown up to be. Her skin reminded Christine of black velvet, her eyes were large and framed by long eyelashes, and Christine was envious of how much more shapely her sister was in comparison to her own stick figure.

"Sari, allow me to introduce Edward," Christine said with a smile. "Edward, this is my sister."

Edward looked between them in confusion, clearly wondering how it was possible for them to be related.

"Adopted sister," Sari clarified with a shy smile, standing. "It's a pleasure. I've heard so much about you."

Edward bowed politely in greeting. Sari, after a moment's hesitation, bounded forward and squeezed him in a quick, nervous hug.

"I don't want us on bowing terms," she explained, blushing slightly.

Initially, Christine had been nervous to introduce her sister to Edward, if only because they were such opposite personalities. Where Edward was mostly calm and assertive, Sari was flighty and shy to almost muteness among strangers. However, to Christine's surprise, they seemed to get along; Edward's warm mannerisms seemed to draw her sister out of her shell remarkably quickly.

"Christine, I have a present for you!" Sari squeaked about two drinks later, clapping her hands to her mouth.

"You shouldn't have," Christine said earnestly.

"Here!" Sari offered her something small and silver (after dropping it on the floor twice in her haste to pick it up).

"Oh! That's beautiful," Christine breathed.

It was a silver ring with a large, smooth red stone in the center.

"I know it's probably quite common for palace standards, but I thought it was pretty," Sari said quickly.

"I love it," Christine gushed, drawing her sister into a warm embrace.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma looked pointedly at Killian's right hand.

"Aye, it's the one that looks slightly less, for lack of a better term, pirate-ish," Killian acknowledged.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"You know, I was really thinking that I was actually correct about the mistress idea. Not that you had one, of course, but that your father did. I mean, besides your sister also being a gorgeous woman, the physical similarities between you are rather lacking," Edward said, helping Christine take her cloak off back in her room.

"I am sorry that I didn't introduce you sooner-"

"But you wanted to ensure her safety. I understand. I would feel the same way about Jayne," he said with a crooked smile.

Christine frowned slightly. "You know it's not that I don't trust you, because I do-"

"But you have fears about losing your family, and you don't want to take unnecessary risks. I understand," he finished for her.

Christine buried her head in his shoulder, feeling completely at peace. Something about having someone who knew her so completely was liberating. Who knew that their first kiss seven months ago would lead to this?

"You didn't tell me it was your birthday," he commented. "If I'd known, I would have got you something."

"You didn't need to," Christine murmured.

"I know why you didn't tell me," Edward said matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"Because I know what you were doing at this time a year ago," he teased.

"Oh hush," Christine murmured, placing her lips firmly against his. When she pulled away, it was with a sigh. "My father was alive last year."

Edward pulled away to examine her thoroughly, tracing a finger gently along her jawline. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," she said, surprised at how honest it felt coming from her lips. Of course, the grief of losing her father would never fully go away, and her brother's situation continually preyed on her mind. However, having Edward was a blessing that she was grateful for every day.

"You know," she began thoughtfully, "I think I know what you could give me for my birthday."

The next morning, Christine woke up feeling thoroughly content, nestled gently against Edward's chest.

"Good morning," she whispered, looking up lazily into her lover's sleep-addled eyes.

"Last night," Edward began, clearing his throat.

Christine glanced up at him nervously.

"What did I do that was embarrassing enough to beat Raoul?"

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Well, at least you didn't make it graphic," Emma sighed, sounding vaguely impressed at his self-restraint.

Killian looked offended. "Swan, do use your common sense. These are my parents we're talking about. There are some boundaries no man should cross, or _want_ to cross."

"So, your parents were pretty happy, but I'm guessing it didn't last?" Emma prompted softly.

"I suppose you recall the resistance that my aunt mentioned to my mother? Well, while my parents were busy falling in love, the resistance was busy planning something else."

"Freeing your mother?" Guessed Emma.

"Ruining lives," Killian said.

* * *

*By an anonymous author.

** English trad.


	7. Chapter 7

The Past

* * *

"On this day, the tenth of January of the year 1793, I speak to you as only an equal. On behalf of myself and my brother, I... fully consent... to give up any tenuous claim that our family is believed to have on this kingdom or any other. I... acknowledge that King Clayton, the first of his name, and his heirs are... the true and rightful monarchs. Believing what I do, I must beg you all to immediately cease all actions that could be seen as treason. If these actions are not stopped, I... agree that the death penalty is the only fitting punishment for such crimes, as outlined by our laws, and... support the king in all actions he sees fit to take."

Christine swallowed hard as she finished, fighting against the tears beginning to well up under her eyelids. She could barely hear herself think over the commotion in the packed square outside of the palace. At this point, she was fairly certain that the only thing keeping the crowds from ripping her apart was the considerable height of the stone balcony on which she stood. After this speech, she was clearly a traitor to their cause, wasn't she? Hating her would be a mild reaction under the circumstances.

That was why the words that she could make out from the roar of sound below were confusing her:

"How have they threatened you, princess?"

"Long may you live, my lady!"

"Down with the king!"

"Tyrant!"

With a sideways glance at Lord Alasdair, standing just behind her in the shadow of the doorway, Christine shook her head slightly.

Guards were beginning to arrest particularly vocal members of the crowd. Some of them were reacting violently and people were starting to scream as blood splattered the snow.

"Please, stop!" Christine begged.

"Enough," Lord Alasdair snapped, yanking Christine back into the shelter of the castle. He didn't let her go until he'd pulled her into an empty room, pushing her down roughly into a chair.

"I... I did what you asked of me," Christine began, ashamed of the slight pleading note in her voice. "I said exactly what you asked me to. My brother-"

"Your brother will pay the price of your failure," Lord Alasdair interrupted coolly. "That last outburst of yours made it clear whose side you were truly on, if it wasn't already clear from your actions. Considering the time you spend performing, one would think that you would be more capable of making a convincing speech."

"But I did _make_ the speech," Christine argued frantically.

Lord Alasdair leaned forward until his face was inches away from her own. "Not good enough." Christine shivered as his breath blew across her face. As he turned and left without a word, a tear traced its way down Christine's face and fell to the floor.

* * *

That night, Christine was not invited to dine with the king. Instead of feeling frightened by this, she only felt a dull sort of relief. She didn't feel like getting out of bed, never mind making herself look presentable.

All she could think about was Connor: a toddler with messy blonde hair running towards her unsteadily and reaching up his hands in a wordless demand for her to pick him up, a little boy with wet blue eyes and a snot-covered face looking for her to soothe his tears, an older version of her brother screaming and begging her to not let him be taken away...

"'I hear a baboon on the Southern Isles is looking for his face back'?! Is that really the best insult you could come up with?"

Christine felt her entire body tense up.

Edward stopped mid-laugh. "Christine?"

"I think I need to be alone tonight," she said coldly, not even bothering to look in his direction.

Edward hovered by the door uncertainly. "Are you alright?"

"Please leave. I would find it morally reprehensible to spend any time with someone related to Lord Alasdair this evening." Christine knew that she was being unfair, but there was something hard knotted in her stomach that refused to let her be reasonable.

The foot of the bed sunk slightly as a very concerned Edward sat down on the edge. "What did he do?"

"He's going to kill my brother," she whispered, ashamed to hear her voice break.

"They wouldn't do that, surely. Don't they need him to threaten you?" Edward tried to reason after a pause.

Christine sat up, eyes sparkling with tears and anger. "It's hardly any better if they're going to torture him, Edward! Do you know what it's like having a loved one's blood on your hands?! Every time someone does something against the king supposedly in my name, my brother is getting hurt. Your father has kindly informed me of this, and there's nothing I can do to fix it! I say and do things that I don't believe in just to keep Connor alive, and for what? Nothing! Connor is still getting hurt and there's nothing I can do! You have no idea what that's like, and do you want to know why? Because your bloody family is responsible for it!"

Bright blue eyes met pale blue-grey, and Christine's shouts were replaced by a heavy silence.

"My family isn't me," Edward finally said.

Christine's lower lip started to quiver. "I know."

With a sigh, Edward pulled Christine towards him and Christine buried her face into his chest, sobs wracking her body.

* * *

Christine no longer snuck out to see Sari. She didn't dare put her sister at risk or herself under suspicion, and frankly, she was terrified of what they would do to her brother if she was caught. Her insides writhed with shame whenever she thought about having taken that risk before. Perhaps it was due to the thrill of young love or just stupidity, but, somehow, they had succeeded in lulling her into a false sense of security; she had begun to believe that she was untouchable, that she could get away with more and more without repercussions. Now, she had been pulled harshly back to reality.

Life fell into a routine that was even more unbearable than it had been initially. She still ate with the king most nights and performed almost every night, but now she would also have to spend several hours a week being threatened or manipulated by Edward's father or the king. The two men called them "political meetings", but the title was misleading, particularly since, as Christine repeatedly tried to tell them, she had no control over the political situation.

She was becoming certain that she was losing her mind, and the proof appeared one day as she was getting ready to sing.

There was a face in the mirror that wasn't her own.

Christine screamed and jumped away from the mirror, but when a servant ran into the room, the face was no longer there.

The next time she saw the figure was when she was waiting for Edward in her room. She was changing into her nightdress when the door creaked open only an inch. Christine paused, her dress half-off.

"Edward?" She called hesitantly.

There was no answer, only a glint of a grey eye through a hole in a black mask. Christine stared back, shaking slightly. The figure stayed there for at least ten minutes, before disappearing into the shadows. When Christine ran to the door, there was no one in the hallway.

Next, she was walking to dinner and she had the strangest sense that she was being watched. She whirled around and saw only a shadow from around the corner, but she recognized the shape of it.

A few days later in her room, she was brushing her long dark hair and singing softly to herself when she saw the figure appear behind her in the mirror. She froze as he walked towards her, reaching into a drawer for the knife Edward had given her on their adventure the year before.

"Who are you?" She snarled, whirling around to face the figure.

He didn't respond except to stare at her with his cold eyes. He began to walk towards her, slowly, like a cat might stalk a mouse.

"I will kill you if you come near me," Christine threatened, barely managing to keep the waver out of her voice.

The figure didn't even hesitate. He moved towards her and paused just out of arm's reach. Christine was almost panting in fear, but he wasn't moving. His eyes just bore into hers with the same unblinking, almost reptilian intensity as before.

Then, cautiously, he stepped forward again. Christine forgot about the knife as he moved so that his forehead was almost touching hers. Then, deliberately, he tilted his head to the side and lifted his mask slightly, running his tongue along her neck. Christine shuddered and tried to bring the knife up, but the strange specter had her hand in a death grip.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the specter left as quickly as he had come, leaving Christine trembling and gasping for air. All he left behind was the sickly scent of dried flowers.

She was certain that she was losing her mind, but what figment of her imagination could touch her like that?

It wasn't until March, though, that disaster truly struck.

Christine was singing an aria when suddenly, something hit the candle beside her. It fell over neatly onto the curtains, which the fire began to devour with crackles and snaps of pleasure. Christine stared in the direction the object had come from and saw a black-clad figure just outside of the doors. Their eyes locked, and it was Edward who leapt up to pull her away from the flaming fabric before it fell down onto her.

Spurred into action, Christine pulled him after the people fleeing the hall. Instead of following them, though, she pulled him up a circular flight of stairs to the top of one of the castle's many inner walls. She slammed the door, searching with trembling hands for a lock or bolt but not finding one.

"What are you doing?" Asked Edward, baffled.

"Making sure no one can follow us," Christine said, before her eyes widened with a sudden realization. "Unless he's already here..."

She began sprinting across the wall, eyes darting around to anything that could hide the form of a man.

"Christine!" Edward grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. His tone suggested that this was definitely not the first time he'd called her name to get her attention.

"There's a man. He's following me, and tonight he tried to kill me." Christine's voice was low and frantic.

"What are you talking about?" Edward's brow furrowed.

"He's been everywhere, Edward, everywhere! He's been watching me. At least a dozen times I've seen him, but he's probably been there more than that. If I don't see him, I see his shadow... he's always dressed in black, with a mask and a hood. Tonight, I saw his shadow, he shot the arrow that hit the candle-"

"Nothing was shot at it," Edward interrupted, perplexed. "You must have bumped the table-"

"No, there was something that hit it. If not an arrow, a-a stone, or something. Perhaps he had a slingshot-"

"Christine, listen to yourself-"

"I know that it sounds insane, but he touched me, Edward. I know that he's real, and now he's trying to kill me. He must be working for the king or for your father, and since having me here isn't enough to solve their rebellion problem, they need to get rid of me-"

"Christine!" Edward interrupted, lifting her chin gently. "I know you've been terribly stressed lately, and stress can make your mind play tricks on you. I'm certain that it's natural to be paranoid in a situation like yours-"

Christine backed away, eyes suddenly hard. "You don't believe me."

"I didn't say that. I believe that you could have seen this, but that doesn't necessarily make it real. Surely someone else would've noticed him too," Edward attempted to reason with her.

"You don't believe me," she repeated softly, backing away from him and looking for all the world like a cornered animal.

Edward sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in frustration.

When he opened them, Christine had sunk to the floor, her shoulders shaking.

"Please don't cry," Edward said softly, moving towards her and pulling her up into his arms.

"Let go of me," she sobbed.

He did so reluctantly, and she suddenly felt incredibly lonely, even if they were only a step away from each other. She stared at him, vision blurred by the tears that wouldn't stop falling. Before she knew it, she was moving back into his embrace, relaxing into his warmth and safety.

"Shh," he whispered, running soothing fingers through the curls framing her face.

He held her for a while as she cried for longer than he'd ever heard her cry before. In his experience, Christine's tears were either very subtle or explosive. In either case, they were always brief. He'd figured out long ago that Christine preferred to keep tears to herself if at all possible, and that was why such a huge display of distress was causing him a distinct amount of unease.

"You know that I would never let anyone hurt you, right?" He murmured into her hair, once her sobbing had died down slightly.

"That's a ridiculous p-promise to make," Christine chided, face still buried in his shoulder.

"It's true, though," he promised, pulling her in more tightly. "If this ghost of yours does exist, I'll destroy him. If you don't first, of course."

Christine let out a soft, wet laugh at that.

"I think your shirt is wet," she said.

Edward's reply was to gently kiss her forehead before leaning his own head against hers.

"Even if it was against the king, or my father, or Julian, I would do whatever I could to keep you safe," he added almost reverently.

For a moment, the young couple just stayed like that. Alone on the wall, with a light dusting of late March snow falling onto them, they could almost pretend that they were somewhere else. It was a rare moment of peace that neither one was eager to break.

"Edward?" Christine murmured finally, looking him seriously in the eye. His breath caught at the sight of her. She was always beautiful to him, but somehow she looked even more beautiful at this moment. Her normally pale face was flushed from her tears, her eyes large, glistening, and reflecting the tapestry of stars above them.

"Mmm?"

"Do you love me?" She hesitated slightly.

"Yes, of course I do. You know that," he said with a small smile.

"Do you think... that you'll always feel this way?" She asked, eyes searching his.

"Yes, I do," he said seriously. "I would give you the world if I could."

She relaxed against him with a soft sigh. She looked exhausted.

"But, as giving you the world isn't very realistic and, from what I understand, you don't really want it anyway-" Christine laughed "-perhaps I could give you the next best thing?"

Christine raised an eyebrow in the mischievous way that he was now familiar with. "And what would that be?"

"Freedom?" He suggested, and the word sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the falling snow. "We could do it, you know. We could leave out the passage you've used before. There are never any guards, and, even if there were now, we both know how to hold our own in combat."

Christine's smile was pained. "Even if we could, Connor-"

"I've thought about it. I didn't want to tell you until I was sure that I could pull it off, but... what if I stole the king's royal seal? We could write a letter ordering his release, deliver it ourselves, and have him free before they even knew we were gone."

Her insides twisting with something that felt suspiciously hopeful, Christine bit her lip. "Do you actually think it could be possible?"

Edward laughed suddenly. "Yes, I do. I think we could do it. Then, who knows? We could live in the forest, or catch a ship to those islands you love so much."

Christine stepped onto her toes and kissed the man passionately. "I would have no objections to spending the rest of my life with you, regardless of where."

"And I will keep you safe from anyone who dares threaten you again-"

"You don't need to do that, Edward. Just love me and never leave me," she said earnestly, throwing her arms around his neck. "Besides, I may need to be the one protecting you," she added with a hint of a smirk.

Edward grinned right back. "I can't disagree with that, my love."

Then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, he knelt down onto the snow.

"My darling Christine, so that we do not live together scandalously as an unmarried couple, perhaps this would be a prudent time to-"

He was cut off by a swift kiss.

"You're ruining my proposal," he protested.

"You knew the answer anyway," she said.

"Still, I'd like to say at least a few things, so behave," he replied sternly, gently pushing her back up. She sighed dramatically, but there was a smile teasing at the edges of her mouth.

"Christine, I swear to love you for as long as I live and to protect you to the best of my ability. I swear to never leave your side, to help you carry all of your burdens, and to make you smile as often as I can. If these terms are agreeable to you, will you do me the greatest honour of consenting to be my wife?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Nothing would make me happier."

With a smile, Edward pulled a plain silver band from his own finger and slipped it onto Christine's. "There. Now it's official."

The two returned to Christine's room, smiling rapturously at the other. Neither one noticed the dark figure in the shadows with the cold grey eyes as they left. The figure himself lingered for several minutes afterwards, face unreadable thanks to the mask, but with a body that radiated with fury. Finally, he disappeared down the staircase. The only thing that remained to show that he was ever there was the subtle, sickly scent of lavender.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian paused when Emma's jaw dropped.

"Wait... your mother's stalker was your _grandfather_?!"

"And you thought having Regina in your family was a nightmare," Killian teased.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The plan was to meet at midnight the next night in Christine's room and make their escape. Christine was nervous - so much could go wrong - but pushed it to the side and attempted to go about her day with some normalcy.

That normalcy was wrecked by mid-afternoon when guards swept into her room and arrested her.

By midnight, she was in a cell in a prison just outside of the city.

_Please, God, let this not be because Edward was caught, _Christine thought, huddled in a ball on the cold floor.

Meanwhile, Edward was sailing out with the next tide.


	8. Chapter 8

The Past

* * *

Christine slept the first of many nights in prison badly. Her cell was small and dirty, with only some straw on the floor. The cold bled through the dirt and stones and straw and her thin blue dress, and several times she had to bite back a scream when a rat scurried past. She was fairly certain that the straw on her floor had been the home of a family of rats before it was hers, and they didn't seem to be taking her intrusion well. In addition, the smell in the prison was horrible: a cross between sweat, human waste, dampness, and rot.

Worst of all, though, was the man on her right. He would yell and scream or talk or sing to himself at alternate intervals. When Christine had finally begged him to stop, he'd looked at her as if he couldn't see her at all.

"He's mad, you know," the man on her left said. He had been in prison for at least a few weeks, judging by the length of his beard.

Christine blinked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Lost his mind. It only took him a night or two. It's the rats," he continued conversationally, threading his arms through the bars between their cells.

As if the name of their species was a summons, several rats emerged from the straw behind Christine and scurried to other cells. The man on her right let out a scream and started rocking, tucked into a tiny ball.

"What are you in here for?" Her sane neighbour asked casually, as if nothing had happened.

"Existing, I suppose," Christine sighed, pulling her knees to her chest protectively.

The man beside her let out a hearty laugh. "The worst crime of all," he agreed, wiping his dark eyes with filthy fingers.

"How about you?"

"Accused of plotting to overthrow the king," he said with a shrug.

"Did you?" Christine asked, staring at her toes. They had taken her shoes the night before, and her feet were already freezing.

The man snorted. "No, but the bloody king is paranoid. Just trying to teach me a lesson. I'm sure I'll be back at court within the month."

Christine let out a shriek as whiskers brushed against her leg.

"Oh God," she moaned, jumping to her feet. "I can't... I-"

Her sane neighbour looked her over. "You'd better learn to deal with that, or you'll turn into our friend there in no time," he nodded towards the rocking man, now muttering very quickly and inaudibly to himself. "I'm Gavin."

"Christine," she said weakly. "How do you... um... deal with this? You aren't mad."

He grinned. "I just befriended my enemy, so to speak. I christened all of the rats, made up their life stories, that sort of thing."

Christine was definitely rethinking her assessment of Gavin's sanity.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he added as if reading her mind.

A rat skittered across her bare foot and she closed her eyes, doing the first thing that came to mind.

"_Rose, Rose, Rose red,_

_Shall I ever see thee wed?_

_I will marry at thy will, sire,_

_At thy will._"*

Even the man to her right seemed to quiet down to listen to her soft singing. She repeated the song multiple times until she felt relatively calm. Gavin nodded his approval afterwards and Christine smiled grimly. It looked as though she'd found her strategy, and she hadn't even had to resort to befriending rats.

Over the next few days, some prisoners became brave enough to request certain songs. If she knew the songs, she always obliged, filling the dark space with melancholy tunes that often enough moved the other prisoners to tears. Even the jailer and guards would pause to listen.

She estimated that she had been there for just over a week when the man on her right fell silent. Christine tried to coax him into eating his meagre daily delivery of bread, but he just stared at her blankly. He died several days later, and the cell next to her became sadly empty.

Christine sang several songs for him as a makeshift funeral service and shed a few tears, but the next week she became grateful for the empty cell next to her when she became sick. She was able to push the vomit-soaked straw over into the next cell, which at least made things more bearable. The illness went on for over a week, and Christine began to feel horribly sore and weak.

On the ninth morning she woke Gavin up with her retching, he looked at her appraisingly.

"What?" She panted, leaning her head against the metal bars.

"I'm guessing congratulations are in order," he commented drily.

"To the rats for inevitably getting their straw back?" She muttered, thinking of how much fun the rats would have with two empty cells.

"No," Gavin said, sounding amused. "To you, mother."

"What in the bloody name of-" His words sunk in, and she felt her queasy stomach drop to her toes. "Bloody hell," she groaned, resisting the urge to slam her head repeatedly against the wall.

Gavin raised his eyebrows at the string of curses that followed, looking impressed.

"Of course, I could be wrong, but if I'm right... do you really think that's appropriate language to use around an unborn child?"

In response, Christine improvised a song about how she would graphically murder Gavin if the bars were to spontaneously disappear, earning her loud laughs and shouts of approval from the other cells. She felt bad about it afterwards, but she supposed that she could now blame her irritability on pregnancy.

Fortunately, the sickness eventually passed. Christine spent her days singing to her growing mid-section so that she could forget her fears of giving birth in such horrible conditions. If she forgot about that part, then it was easy for her to daydream about her baby.

"I hope you look like your father, but have your mama's brains," she cooed softly, rubbing her hand over her front. Gavin snorted.

The first time she felt the baby move, she almost cried. Then she sang it a song, as she was now in the habit of doing. If she thought too much, it was just too difficult to function. That was why she didn't think about what had become of Connor or Edward or Sari, but instead just thought about each meandering melody line as it floated through the oppressive jail. It also helped to relieve the constant boredom and discomfort. By the time the baby moved inside of her, it was summer. Now, instead of shivering her nights away, Christine sweated, too hot to barely even move.

By the time she turned eighteen, her torso had swelled massively. Christine imagined that it wouldn't be much more than a month before the baby came, a thought that both thrilled her and terrified her.

Of course, having no calendar in the jail, she would have had no idea that it was her birthday at all if not for the unexpected visitor who delivered her dinner instead of the regular jailer.

"Sari?" Gasped Christine.

The woman shrieked, then started crying.

"Oh my God, Christine!"

Christine bit back a teary smile. She wondered what in particular had caused her sister's exclamation. She imagined she was quite a sight after months and months without a bath in a filthy jail cell, but, then again, perhaps it was the surprise of seeing her with child that had caused Sari's tears.

"What are you doing here?" Christine demanded, suddenly afraid. She reached her hand through the bars to grasp her sister's, needing the physical contact more than she could fully express.

Sari blushed slightly, avoiding her eyes. "Well, since I last saw you, I sort of... got married."

Christine's jaw dropped. "I suppose you couldn't let me get married before you," she eventually managed to joke. "Who's the lucky man?"

"Well..." Sari's voice trailed off in embarrassment.

"Yes?" Christine prompted.

"Your jailer!" Sari blurted, biting her lip.

Christine closed her eyes. "You didn't."

"He's not such a terrible man, at least not to me. He's drunk most of the time. And, now, I'm able to see you to wish you a happy birthday. And maybe I'll be able to get you out eventually, once I think of how to do it, and then I won't even have to lay eyes on him again," Sari spoke very quickly, looking as though she expected a harsh rebuke.

"Oh, Sari, you shouldn't have done that," Christine whispered, tears filling her eyes.

"Well, I had to do something. You're my sister. And now, I'm doubly glad that I did. At the very least, maybe I can help you when you go into labour."

Sari proceeded to tell her what she knew of Edward. Apparently, Lord Alasdair had told the king of Edward's plot, although how he found out, Sari was uncertain.

"They shipped him off to an island prison. They left the same day you were arrested," she finished sadly.

Christine swallowed hard. "At least if he's there, he wasn't executed. That means he's probably still alive." It felt as though a significant weight had been lifted off of her shoulders with the realization.

"I can't linger here too long, or my husband will become suspicious. I'll come as often as I can, though," Sari promised, squeezing her sister's hand in a reluctant farewell.

Sari kept her promise, and, as much as Christine hated the thought of her sister sacrificing anything for her, she fully appreciated her sister's presence during labour.

Her son arrived just over two weeks later, on the seventh of December, 1793.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Are you alright, love?" Killian paused to ask.

Emma had to take a moment to think before responding. "Yeah. I'm just feeling... lucky, I guess."

Since meeting Henry, Emma had thought back to her own pregnancy far more often than ever before. It had certainly not been a pleasant time for her, especially because she knew that there was no way that she could keep her baby. Her childhood made the idea of putting her own baby up for adoption appalling, but keeping the baby would be unbearably selfish when she knew nothing about parenting and had no one to support her. Hell, she didn't even have a job.

Oddly, hearing about Christine made her realize just how good she'd had it. Yes, she was alone and pregnant. Nevertheless, her living conditions were fine, she had a release date, she had enough to eat, she had medication to help her through labour, and she had the option of giving her child up since she couldn't provide for him.

Christine had been even younger than her when she gave birth, and she did it in horrendous conditions with no medical staff or painkillers. The thought made Emma feel almost guilty.

If Killian knew how she was feeling, which he most likely did, he didn't say anything. Instead, he offered her a small, understanding smile and carried on.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Her singing teacher at boarding school had told her that most opera singers had an easier time with labour because they used the necessary muscles on a regular basis to sing. Christine shuddered to think of what a difficult labour would be like if hers was "easy".

"I love you, Liam," she whispered to her new baby after Sari had left, cradling him gently to her chest.

"Good name," Gavin commented from beside her, a smile distinguishable from underneath his now very long beard.

"It was my grandfather's," Christine explained softly. "The name of a king."

"He's a homely little fellow," her companion chuckled, peering through the bars.

"All newborns look a little bit strange, but I think that he's quite handsome considering he was inside of me just yesterday," she smiled gently, pressing a kiss to the infant's head.

Soft lullabies replaced her previous songs now that she had her son. She rocked him and fed him and, for the first time since coming to prison, didn't feel quite so alone.

"Considering that all you do is cry, I honestly can't see how I love you so much," Christine muttered several weeks later, absolutely exhausted. Liam looked up at her with eyes that were far too intelligent, and even that coaxed a sunny smile out of his mother.

The next change in her routine came when she estimated Liam to be a month old.

She was humming quietly to her son when loud footsteps echoed from down the hall. Tension automatically ran through her body, and she clutched Liam closer to her chest. What if someone was coming to take him away from her?

It turned out that they had come for Gavin.

"The king wants you back at court," one guard informed him in a bored voice.

Gavin looked startled. "He does?"

When the guard nodded, he suddenly looked at Christine frantically.

"Take care of Martha? I think she's going to have babies soon," he murmured, glancing towards his pile of straw that he tended to share with one fat rat in particular.

"Yes, I will, but, Gavin... wait!"

He paused as he was leaving, even as the guards shot her a dirty look.

"I don't know if you're familiar with the king's advisor, Lord Alasdair, but I need you to do something for me. Please, I beg you, try to find his wife or his daughter and inform them that I have given birth to Edward's son in prison-"

"Enough!" One of the guard's hissed, knocking his sword loudly against the bars of her cell, prompting a loud wail from Liam.

"I'll do what I can, my dear," Gavin promised with a kind smile.

Christine watched him go with a familiar sad ache in her chest. She was going to miss her friend. However, she thought that the rats would miss him more. Perhaps she was imagining it, but she could swear that Martha had a sad droop to her whiskers.

"I guess it's just you and me now, love," she whispered to Liam, soothing him to the best of her ability. "You don't count," she added, giving Martha a dirty look.

The rat squeaked indignantly.

She groaned. "Fine. I guess it's you, me, and however many rats."

* * *

A week passed.

Then a month.

Then another month.

Christine's songs became sadder and sadder, in spite of Sari's visits. Gavin's replacement wasn't nearly as amiable as he had been, and every day that he was gone caused her to lose more and more of her little remaining hope.

Then, one day, Sari appeared in a frenzy.

"Christine! My God, you'll never believe it," she whispered feverishly. "I received a letter today from Gavin. It seems that he's spoken to Lord Alasdair's wife. She's agreed to help you get out... Gavin told her about me, and she said that if I drug my husband's ale with this-" she waved around a small vial excitedly "-she'll meet us outside the prison tomorrow at midnight and give us as much assistance as she can. Do you know what this means?!"

"We're getting out of here," she breathed, eyes filling with tears as she hugged Liam. "And the guards?"

Sari's eyes glittered mischievously. "I know just the thing."

The next night, Christine stepped outside for the first time in almost a year while the guards were busy vomiting up their dinners.

"They always dine with us on Tuesdays," Sari explained, stifling a giggle.

Christine didn't ask for more details.

As she stepped beyond the prison doors, Christine decided that there was nothing more beautiful than the sight of millions of stars glittering in the sky. They somehow seemed brighter since she'd last seen them. The sight almost made her laugh. Perhaps the prison had driven her mad after all.

Waiting at the end of the road, illuminated by the stars, were three horses and a petite woman in a deep red cloak. Her hair was the same dull brown as Jayne's, her nose small and turned up, and her lips thin and turned down. Her eyes, however, were a striking kaleidoscope of greens and blues. They darted around nervously even as Christine approached. She looked younger than Christine had anticipated, but she was unmistakeable nonetheless.

"You must be Edward's mother," she greeted softly.

"And you're the woman who led my son to ruin," she replied coolly, eyeing her up and down. "The singer," she added with a sniff.

"Christine," she replied with a small wince. She was aware that she couldn't be much to look at right now. Her dress had long ago faded to grey, and dirt clung to almost every inch of her. Any pregnancy weight she'd managed to gain on a prison diet had been lost long ago, leaving her even thinner than usual. Straw was in her unwashed hair, she was fairly certain that she had lice, and Martha - who had hitched a ride in her pocket - suddenly seemed very visible. Christine cleared her throat, eager to distract Edward's mother from her intense scrutiny. "And your name is...?"

"Evelyn," Edward's mother answered, although the look she gave her implied that being on first name terms was not something she would enjoy. "And my grandson?"

"Liam," Christine told her with a soft smile.

Evelyn approached her with a slight look of disgust, wrinkling her nose, but she reached for Liam nonetheless. Christine resisted for a moment, but reminded herself that just because Liam had barely left his arms since her birth didn't mean that any harm would come to him.

"Aren't you a handsome boy," Evelyn murmured, seemingly able to overlook the dirty cloth around Liam if not the dirt on his mother. "He looks like Edward when he was a babe."

That comment brought a smile to Christine's face, although Sari looked skeptical.

"Now, allow me to make something quite clear." Evelyn's voice returned to its earlier haughty tone as she handed Liam back to his mother. "I despise you. I think you're a selfish temptress who is almost certainly doomed to suffer and die, thank God. However, you and I unfortunately find ourselves on the same side in this. I want my son and grandson to not die in a prison cell, and I'm hoping that your objective is similar. That is why I did the job my son failed to do and got you this."

She pulled a letter out from her sleeve and held it out to Christine. "Release orders with the king's seal for my son. I sent that foolish court astronomer off with similar ones for your brother, since he seemed to think it necessary. Yes, Gavin knew who you were."

"Thank you," Christine whispered, blinking back tears. "Even if you do despise me as much as you say. Perhaps you wouldn't if we got to know each other better-"

"Even if this doesn't get me executed for treason, I sincerely hope never to see your filthy face again," Evelyn snapped, before moving closer to hiss words that Christine could just barely hear. "Alasdair would have put him on the throne eventually, but then _you_ came along."

Hearing that Lord Alasdair had aspirations towards the throne didn't surprise Christine in the slightest. Instead, she just hardened her gaze.

"Then, I sincerely appreciate your help. And I pity you, because I imagine you are perhaps the only person in the world who misses Edward as much as I do."

A sneer twisted itself onto Evelyn's face, but her eyes filled with tears. "Much more, I assure you. And yet you somehow get him."

"I love him very much," Christine assured the woman, reaching out a comforting hand.

Evelyn moved out of reach, scowl deepening. "That's not enough. You are a foolish girl who doesn't understand a thing about love. If you had truly cared for him, you would have let him be."

A twinge of guilt coursed through Christine as Sari shot the woman a venomous look.

"Come on, Christine, we have a ship to catch," she prodded, brushing past Evelyn towards the horses.

Christine clenched her jaw and moved past her as well, forcing herself to keep her head held high. Once she reached the horses, she paused to look back at Evelyn, who was still frozen in place.

"You claim that you understand love, yet I'd wager that your marriage was arranged. A betrayal like this would surely not occur in a compatible marriage; you're working directly against your husband by helping me. That means that the love you know is a mother's love, which is something I have become well acquainted with recently. In that case, our knowledge of love is the same, and I know that I would only want Liam to be happy, regardless of who he chose to love. If you don't want that for Edward, then who is it who truly doesn't understand love?"

Christine stared the woman in the eye as she spoke, and, for a moment, she thought she saw a small shift. Sadness? Understanding? Respect? She couldn't quite put a finger on what it was, but it was there for a fraction of a second before it gave way to the now familiar look of loathing on the woman's face.

"Send my son my love, since I'm never to see him again thanks to you," she said bitterly.

"I will," Christine promised, nodding at Evelyn as she clumsily mounted the horse one-handedly.

She nudged the horse into a walk, carefully cradling her son.

"Let's go get your father."

* * *

*English Trad.


	9. Chapter 9

The Past

* * *

There was something about being on a ship again that made Christine's heart sing. Yes, it was a pathetic ship of supplies for the prisoners on the island, but that didn't change the fact that she was surrounded by nothing but open water, with salty air tossing her curls in every direction. Her mood was also helped by the fact that she was wearing a clean dress for the first time in a year, and she herself was clean again. She was never taking bathing for granted again.

She liked to imagine that Liam loved the ship too, but maybe it was just the fresh air and the constant gentle rocking that made him cry less. Martha also seemed happy, although Christine still held onto the hope that she was not yet an expert on rat emotions. In contrast, Sari had been almost constantly sick since setting foot on the ship. Even though she'd tried to tell her sister that she'd get used to the waves eventually, Sari had vowed repeatedly between bouts of vomiting that she was never stepping foot on a ship again once she got off this one.

Lady Evelyn had bribed the crew well enough to get the rescue party decent quarters, but the very fact that the crew had been bribed made Christine nervous. To accept bribery was a form of deception; could she trust men who were fundamentally dishonest not to betray her?

Ultimately, she didn't have a choice, but that didn't mean that she had to be happy about it.

When the island prison - a fortress of water-licked stone towering out of the ocean - finally appeared on the horizon, Christine's heart started pounding. What if Edward was dead? Or worse, what if he had lost his mind like the man in the cell next to hers, or now had a chronic illness that would slowly but surely leech away at his life? What if her letter of release didn't work?

"Thank God," Sari moaned beside her, looking pale and slightly green. "At least now the journey is half-over."

Christine glanced at her sister in amusement. "One can hope, anyway," she murmured. Half-over implied that things would go smoothly, and she had stopped being that optimistic somewhere between her father dying and being thrown in prison.

As the ship docked some hours later, Christine gently handed Liam over to her sister.

"You know what to do if something goes wrong," she told her firmly.

Sari looked uncomfortable but nodded.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"What was the back-up plan?" Emma cut in curiously.

"Bloody hell, Swan, you do enjoy interrupting," Killian said with a glint of humour in his eye.

Emma shot him a dirty look.

He sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Well, the first back-up plan was to escape with Liam and raise him. The second plan was to drown him and herself."

At Emma's startled look, Hook added, "Only if my parents were dead and there was no way to escape capture, of course. Try to remember that capture would have meant death in the best case scenario, and torture or life imprisonment in the worst."

"It's just I would have expected relatives of yours to have... I don't know, a more elaborate plan?"

"There's only so much you can do when backed into a corner," Killian said.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"From the king himself?"

Christine nodded with a polite smile, trying her best to look convincing.

The man in charge of the prison shrugged. "You heard the girl. Bring the prisoner." He turned to Christine. "Have a seat, my dear."

She eyed the faded armchair behind her dubiously, but sat. The man remained standing, eyeing her with interest.

"Men are rarely freed from this prison. Treason is not a crime the king is likely to forgive, for obvious reasons," he said.

Christine swallowed hard, hand subconsciously tightening around the knife she had hidden beneath her cloak.

"That makes me think that this must be a special case. He wanted your husband out of the way so he could have his way with you?" The man guessed.

Relief flowed through Christine. "Yes, that was exactly it."

She tried to arrange her face into a look of shame. "Then I got ill, and he hasn't looked at me since." She mentally congratulated herself on her clever excuse for looking so sickly after her own bout in prison.

The man grunted. "Pity. The man should get his eyes checked."

Christine pretended to be embarrassed, but alarm bells were beginning to chime in her head. The man was eyeing her up and down like a piece of meat at a market.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "If it pleases you, Captain, might I get some time alone with my husband once he's brought here?"

The man lifted his eyebrows in amusement. "Of course, my dear. Are you sure you wouldn't like some time alone with me first?"

Christine blurted the first thought that came into her mind. "I'm afraid the illness I had was a venereal disease*, Captain. I'm likely still contagious."

The man recoiled. "Oh, of course."

That was the end of all exchanges between Christine and the Captain of the guard.

Christine was beginning to panic (how long had it been since the guard left to get Edward?) when the door to the office swung open.

For a moment, all Christine could do was stare.

The Captain cleared his throat and left with the guard who had brought Edward, and finally Christine had what she'd been dreaming about for a year.

"Oh, Edward," she choked, tears spilling over.

He was barely recognizable. He had always been a well-built man, quite well muscled in comparison to Christine's tiny physique. Now he looked as if he hadn't eaten in months. His eyes were sunken, his hair, usually kept short, was now at his shoulders, and a beard obscured much of his face. His clothes were grey and ripped, and the skin underneath was bruised and bloodied. He had to lean against the wall for support even to stand. However, his eyes still made him indistinguishably Edward. While teary, they were fixed on Christine in an intense stare, like a starving man suddenly offered bread.

Slowly, she walked towards him and warily reached out a hand to touch his cheek. It was wet with tears.

"I told you I would be the one saving you," she said with a weak attempt at a smile.

Edward let out a quiet sob and pulled Christine into his arms.

"We're going to be fine now," she murmured tearfully into his shaking shoulders.

Edward didn't reply, just buried his face into her hair and continued to cry. Christine didn't mind; she needed it just as much as he did. She needed the comfort of his touch to tell her that he was there, he was alive, and anything that had been broken during their separation could be fixed.

"I love you," he told her, his voice hoarse from misuse.

"I know," she replied, gently pressing her lips to his. "Oh God, I've missed you."

"Christine, they..." his voice dissolved into silent sobs that shook his body.

"They hurt you?" Finished Christine softly.

"They hurt _you_," he replied, holding her more tightly. Edward was a gentleman, but Christine guessed that what he was really trying to say was that she looked as though she'd been to hell and back too.

"Not really. I even made a friend. She's back on the ship. She's a rat-"

A laugh strangled its way out of Edward's throat.

"Oh, and, God, Edward, I have something amazing to show you back on the ship-"

He almost smiled at that. "The rat?"

"No, I almost forgot to say because I saw you and... oh, but, Edward, we have a baby," Christine said, smiling a huge wet smile.

Edward pulled away from her in confusion. "A baby?"

"Yes! I had him three or four months ago in prison and he's ours!" She couldn't have said whether the sound that came out of her throat was a sob or a laugh. "His name is Liam."

"Christine," Edward murmured, and, oddly, her name said everything. It said "I love you", "I missed you", "you idiot, of course it's 'ours'", "I am in awe of you", and a million other things that he needed to say but couldn't find the words for.

And when Edward held Liam for the first time, Liam graced him with one of his newly discovered smiles. Sari cried, Christine cried, Edward cried, Liam did not cry, and Martha... well, Martha didn't cry, but Christine imagined that she was moved all the same because she stayed perfectly perched on the table of their cabin, watching the scene unfold.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma snorted.

"What?"

"Your mom really had a thing with rats," she said, mouth twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

"To be fair, Uncle Gavin was the one who began that one," Killian said with a shrug. "My mother just had a healthy respect for rodents after a year living with them, and was understandably more attuned to their expressive devices. She would probably get on well with Mr. Smee," he added as an afterthought, looking mildly disturbed by the thought.

* * *

The Past

* * *

That night, as Christine lay in bed with Edward and Liam in between them, she couldn't help but let some reality back into her temporary cloud of euphoria. Once Sari's gentle breathing had evened out into the slow pace of sleep, Christine dared to ask Edward the questions plaguing her mind. He, of course, was not asleep; she felt the tension of pain and fear through the body that she had yet to get used to again now that it had changed so much.

"What now?" She asked Edward softly, staring into his eyes in the dim light that came from the stars and moon shining through the porthole.

"Are you still eager to go to the Southern Isles?" He asked in his rumbling voice that Christine had missed so much.

"Well, I would love that more than anything, but I imagine that would be the first place they would look for us once they realize we're gone. They probably already have," she said with a shudder. Edward squeezed her hand comfortingly.

"You have an idea," Edward prompted, reading her too well as always.

"The last place they would look would be where they would never expect us to go: back to the capital. And we'd have had to go back anyway because of Connor and my father's things; Sari has those hidden with a friend."

Edward sighed. "You're right, of course. Going back there will be painful, though."

"Getting back into life again was always going to be painful," his fiancée pointed out gently.

"We'll have to change our names."

"Maybe not our first ones since they're common enough, but the last, yes. I would've changed my last name anyway, so I can hardly complain," she grinned.

"I never much liked the name Larkin, anyway," Edward said.

"It seems far too pretty for your father," Christine agreed with a snigger.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from Edward. "Your father's name was Jonathan, correct?"

"Mmm," Christine agreed.

"What about 'Johnson'?"

"Too obvious," Christine said.

"Jones?"

Christine paused.

"It still means something to us, but it's a bit less obvious," Edward said.

Christine couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. The thought of making her father part of her identity in such a meaningful way was the greatest gift anyone could give her.

"It's perfect. Thank you," she murmured. Edward kissed her palm in response.

* * *

The ship docked during the day, but Christine and her family waited until it was dark to leave. To her relief, Gavin was there to meet her. He was barely recognizable with his brown beard actually trimmed to an appropriate length, but his bright smile was the same.

She ran to give him a hug. "Thank you," she whispered.

"My pleasure," he said with a smile.

His face lit up even brighter when a squeak sounded from Christine's pocket.

"Martha!"

Sari shuddered as the fat rat squeaked in excitement at her reunion with her old cellmate.

"Connor?" Christine asked, her chest tight with worry.

Gavin's expression fell slightly. "He's somewhere safe, not to worry. The Lady Evelyn gave me some money to give to you, and I took the liberty of renting a room. Your brother is there right now. Of course, my assistance comes with a price..."

Edward limped over, Liam cradled in his arms. "What do you want?" He asked warily.

"No need to be so concerned. Just to remain in whatever home you buy until I can get my own. Clearly, going back to court is not an option," he said.

"Of course. It's the least we can do," Christine agreed.

The journey to the room Gavin had rented was as painful as waiting for Edward had been. Connor had been in prison for years now and was far younger than Edward, which meant that the experience likely had a more severe effect on him. A sense of foreboding filled Christine as she ran up the stairs to see him.

"Christine, wait!" Gavin called, dashing up behind her.

She stopped reluctantly, trying hard to hide her impatience. "What?"

"I got a doctor to see to the worst of his injuries, but-"

"Oh God," Christine moaned, running the final steps to the door and yanking it open.

She wouldn't have recognized Connor if she hadn't known he would be there. Foolishly, she had assumed that Connor couldn't possibly look much worse than Edward; he was only a child, and she had assumed that meant that even the cruelest jailer would have shown some mercy. However, he was pale and skeletally thin, his blonde hair sparse and unhealthy-looking. He lay in bed, so blankets covered the worst of his injuries, but worst of all were his eyes. They were blank as the stared at the wall, just as the madman next to Christine's cell had been.

She rushed to his side, and, to her relief, his eyes focused on her. The relief was short-lived; before she could say anything, he had opened his mouth to scream.

She tried to reach out to him, but he flinched away. "It's me, sweetheart," she said desperately. "It's Christine."

After what felt like an eternity, his screaming subsided into sobs and shaking. Christine felt herself start to cry as well, but couldn't even care enough to summon up any embarrassment. This was all her fault. Her brother had been tortured because of her, and now he was barely even _there_ anymore.

"Don't give up on him just yet," Gavin said quietly from the doorway.

Christine shot him a glare. "Of course I won't give up on him. He's my brother. He's going to come back."

Gavin nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

* * *

The Jones house was tiny, in one of the poorer sections of the city, but Christine loved it anyway. It had a living room that doubled as a kitchen at the front of the house, and two bedrooms at the back. It looked almost like a little cottage in the city, and somehow, in spite of everything, it felt safe.

For the moment, Christine, Edward, and Liam shared one bedroom while Sari, Gavin, and Martha shared the other. Connor slept in the living room in a bed Christine specially made up for him, so that he could feel like a part of the family without having to leave his bed.

Edward began to look more like himself now that he was clean, shaven, and beginning to heal. He was even starting to look for work along with Gavin, and they often found the odd job, particularly down at the docks where people often needed a hand.

Christine began to work again as well. She found a small pub a few streets down from her where she could sing about once a week and earn a decent wage. The rest of her time was spent with Connor and Liam, when she wasn't ill; her time in prison had left her with a feeling of weakness and a cough that wouldn't go away.

Connor recovered enough to recognize her and respond, but often seemed to disappear into his head for flashbacks. Every night, Christine was woken up at least once by his screaming. Christine's presence was the only thing that would calm him down enough to sleep.

"I want papa," he would cry, and Christine's heart broke a little bit each time.

Sometimes, when he was lost in the middle of a flashback, he even became violent. The first time he had punched Christine in the face had been a nasty surprise, but now she was becoming used to his flailing limbs and frequent angry outbursts.

"Do you feel like getting up?" She asked one day, watching Connor eyeing Edward playing with Liam longingly.

His expression turned sour. "No, I don't feel like getting up. If I wanted to, I'd get up! Damn you, Christine. You think you know everything, don't you? You think you can just read my bloody mind! Well, you can't! You don't know anything! Nothing at all!"

"Alright," Christine sighed, brushing a curl from her forehead. Edward frowned at Connor, looking as though he wanted to say something, but Christine shook her head. The look didn't pass by Connor, though.

He let out a laugh of disgust. "You think you're the man of the house? Well, if you're such a man, why don't you tell me off? You coward! What, afraid of offending me? Afraid I'll hate you just like your whole bloody family?"

"Connor!" Christine reprimanded.

Edward stood up, eyes flashing.

"Edward, don't!" Christine begged, grasping his arm gently. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded tightly.

"Thank you." She gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"Christine!" Sari called, entering the house breathlessly.

With a sigh, Christine moved to her sister. "Yes?"

"Can I talk to you outside for a moment?"

Christine nodded, wiping dirty hands on her apron with a last glance at her glaring brother and fiancée.

"What is it?" Christine asked.

Sari stalled, scuffing her feet against the dirty road.

"Well, I'm sure you've noticed, but, well, um, Gavin... he, and me, of course-"

"You're engaged," Christine guessed without hesitation.

Sari's dark eyes almost popped out of her head. "Yes! How did you know?"

Christine chuckled. "You make eyes at each other all the time. You flirt constantly. You kiss whenever you think I'm not looking. It was obvious. I think you'll make a lovely couple."

In fact, the idea was quite thrilling to her. She loved Gavin and Sari both so much that the thought of them getting married made her want to jump up and down in excitement. She could just picture them in a few years, with children of their own and Martha's. They would be a beautiful family.

"Anyway, I know that you and Edward wanted to wait until you were both feeling well again before marrying, but now that a year has passed, perhaps we could get married together?" Sari blushed at her hopeful words.

"I'd love that very much," Christine said.

Edward was also in agreement, and the four were married on Christmas day in 1794. Jayne snuck out to attend the wedding and paid for a wedding portrait as their wedding gift.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You saw that, I presume?" Killian asked.

"Yes," Emma said, picturing the cheerful woman and the serious man she had seen and trying to reconcile them with the tale Killian was weaving.

"It's the only picture I had of my parents," he said somewhat wistfully.

"Have," Emma corrected with a smile.

Killian smiled back, but it didn't quite meet his eyes. "Yes, of course."

* * *

The Past

* * *

March of 1795 rolled around, and Christine found herself waiting with baited breath. It seemed that major things always happened at this time of year: falling in love, being arrested, escaping prison, that sort of thing. That was why, when a tearful Jayne rolled into their now much emptier home since Gavin and Sari had moved down the street, Christine was not in the least surprised.

"What happened?" Christine asked worriedly.

Jayne threw herself into Christine's arms, sobbing too hard for Christine to make out the words. Connor rolled his eyes and turned over to face the wall.

"What's going on?" Edward asked, hurrying out of what had become Liam's room.

"Father found out about mother helping you and now she's going to die!" Jayne wailed.

And, just like that, a world that had just began to right itself turned upside down once again.

* * *

*An STI


	10. Chapter 10

The Past

* * *

Lady Evelyn Larkin was executed on May 1, 1795.

It was a public affair that many attended in the square outside of the palace. Those who attended reported that Lady Evelyn died well, without any weeping or begging. In truth, she was lucky that she was beheaded rather than boiled alive, burned, or hung, drawn, and quartered. Other traitors may not have received the same mercy, but Lady Evelyn was a frequent enough face at court that the king decided to spare her a more painful death.

Everyone agreed that the best part of the execution, though, was her last speech:

"I am proud to die a lady and to die a mother, but I admit that I have one regret: dying a wife. Yes, I die as the wife of the king's advisor, but I should rather die a whore if it meant being unsaddled by vows to a craven bastard."

Then, with only a glare towards Lord Alasdair, she promptly placed her head on the block and lost it.

Of course, Christine and Edward weren't there. At the time Lady Evelyn lost her head, Christine was lying in bed next to her silently crying husband, attempting to provide comfort without really knowing how.

He had wanted to try to rescue her of course. Gavin had pointed out that it could be a trap to lure him and Christine back into captivity, but that didn't stop him from wanting to go.

"If I have to die, then so be it. I would rather die than live with the cowardice of abandoning her," he had said shakily, looking to Christine for support. Sari gave her husband an exasperated look as everyone waited for Christine's response.

For the first time, Christine let him down.

"Edward, I know that you don't want to hear this, but I have to say it. I will, of course, support you in whatever decision you make and help however I can. But, consider a few things first. If you die, which you likely will if you go through with this, your mother will still die. The only difference will be that she'll perish for nothing; she knew she was taking a risk when she helped us, but she did it to save _you_. I'm not sure that she would appreciate you throwing your life away for a sacrifice she felt compelled to make. Beyond that, you would leave Liam an orphan," she reasoned quietly, eyes downcast.

"He'd have his mother," Edward argued, sounding uncertain.

Christine just gave him a look that clearly said that he was an idiot if he assumed he'd be making any suicidal rescue attempt without her.

"And you'd also leave Jayne without a decent living family member," she added, staring at him intently. "Even if you do succeed, you will inevitably be seen, and once they know where we are, we'll not survive longer than a few days at most. Just know that this is a suicide mission if you go through with it, and it's not just you who will bear the consequences."

"So you want me to let her die?" Edward snapped, jaw clenching.

"I want you to think this through," Christine replied, squeezing his hand gently.

Despite a debate that lasted long into the night, Edward eventually had to accept Christine's logic.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"He just let his mother die?" Emma asked, horrified.

Killian frowned. "Weren't you listening, Swan? The options were limited. I know that your parents assume that they can fix any problem and win any fight because they are 'good', but it's not always possible. People run out of options, and sometimes people die. Sometimes there's no 'right' choice, only a choice that is least harmful."

"Well, when you put it that way," Emma muttered. Maybe her parents knew that after all, in spite of their incessant rants about hope. Wasn't the 'least harmful' choice the one they'd made when they sent her away as a baby?

When she thought about it that way, she had to admit that Killian's parents sounded less monstrous.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Understandings his wife's logic didn't mean that Edward had to like it. However, perhaps the only person who felt nearly as bad about it was Christine herself. She knew that she was right in her reasoning, but she also knew that letting his mother die would destroy Edward. She added that knowledge to the increasing pile of guilt that she hid in the back of her mind where she wouldn't have to look at it.

Life went on, but now there was one notable difference. Instead of taking care of a young child and a mentally unstable brother with the help of her husband, she was now taking care of a her son, her brother, _and_ her husband, who mostly just lay in bed with sad, vacant eyes. He ate when Christine brought him food, but rarely moved or spoke. She imagined that this must be what it was like living with a ghost; he was there, but he wasn't at the same time. He had lost a mother, and Christine had lost a husband.

Connor seemed to enjoy the whole thing very much.

"And you act as if _I'm _the mental one," he sneered from his cot.

"I've never said anything of the kind," Christine sighed, soothing her currently screaming son.

"You don't have to. I can see the way you look at me. You feel sorry for me," he said disdainfully, glaring at her from across the room.

"Mama," Liam sobbed, burying his curly head into his mother's shoulder while she bounced him lightly in her arms.

"Can't you get him to shut the bloody hell up?" Complained Connor, putting his pillow over his head.

When Christine didn't respond, Connor's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do believe I'm one of the saner ones here. At least I don't scream or sit like a bloody vegetable all day."

"You of all people should know how difficult it is to lose a parent," Christine admonished, deciding that pointing out that her brother stayed in bed all day just the same as Edward did may not be the wisest course of action.

"When father died, I had to go to prison. I had far more difficult things to worry about," Connor snapped. "But you wouldn't know. You were off parading yourself around in fancy dresses and sleeping with anyone who stood still long enough, even if that person was a Larkin and turned out to be bloody useless and incapable of coping with the smallest things-"

"Stop it" Christine shouted, finally losing her temper.

Connor raised his eyebrows, looking smug. "You just know I'm right."

Without another word, Christine took Liam to his room and shut the door. As soon as it was shut, she slid down the wall and buried her face in Liam's hair, finally allowing herself to cry frantic, silent sobs. Liam's wet eyes turned to her, perplexed.

"Mama," he babbled.

Christine just hugged him more tightly, until he began to squirm uncomfortably.

"Your father is going to be fine soon," she whispered, shaking slightly.

Unfortunately, Christine was incorrect. By the time a month past, she was sure that she could expect Edward to come back soon. But then another passed.

It took five months for Christine to finally break.

It had been a particularly bad week. Money was a bit low, because it was hard for Christine to work and balance looking after her three boys. Connor had been in a particularly ill temper because of the heat. While he now got out of bed, it was mostly to sit around in chairs and antagonize his sister. On top of everything, Liam had gotten the flu, and Christine had barely slept. That had only made her own still-lingering illness from prison worse, and she was feeling more drained than she ever had before from the constant coughing.

"Edward?" She said hesitantly, approaching their bed. As usual, his eyes stayed fixed on the wall. With a sigh, Christine climbed into bed next to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Will you please say something?" She tried again, a little more angrily this time.

He twitched, but, otherwise, there was no response.

"Edward!" Christine snapped, her voice breaking. She rolled over and pulled her knees to her chest, as if by making herself smaller she could hold herself together.

"I know that you're hurting, love, but..." Christine faltered, voice small and shaking, "But I've been hurt too. I know these past years haven't been easy for us, but I can't do this on my own. It's just too much, and I'm so tired."

Christine sobbed into her knees, trying to calm herself down but failing. For the first time in a while, she realized how much she missed her father. He had been a single parent and yet he'd never complained or broken down from what she could tell. She had no idea how he'd done it. Perhaps it had been easier for him; at least his spouse had been gone permanently, instead of being in some sort of half-existing state.

For a few minutes, there was no sound but the quiet crying of Christine. Then, slowly, Edward rolled himself over and wrapped himself protectively around his wife. It was the most contact she had received from him in a long time, and it almost shocked her into silence. Instead, she allowed herself to cry more, leaning into her husband in a gesture bred from former familiarity.

The next morning, Edward got out of bed before her and made breakfast. He looked exhausted and still emotionally blank, but he was out of bed. The next day, he said more than a handful of words. By the next week, he was almost himself again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly to her a few nights later in bed.

She gave him a loving kiss in response that promised forgiveness.

The following few years were comparatively smooth. Liam grew into an energetic little boy with a particular fascination with ships, which his father took him to see every Sunday at the docks. His mother began to teach him to read and write. She also tried to teach him about music, but found him to be as hopeless at it as his father. He was incapable of singing on key, and found his grandfather's violin boring and tedious. With some regret, Christine gave up and put her father's violin back into a corner of her closet. Sari and Gavin were frequent and welcome visitors. Their visits often brought a good amount of cheer, although Sari sometimes took Christine aside to cry and express her concern over the fact that she couldn't seem to get pregnant. Sometimes, when she thought Christine wasn't looking, her sister caught her staring at Liam with something very much like longing.

While Christine didn't tell Edward nor Sari, she herself had concerns related to pregnancy. Over the past few years, she had suspected herself to be with child multiple times, but each pregnancy had resulted in miscarriages. By the time Liam was five, Christine had already lost three children. She never told Edward because she didn't want to worry him, but she suspected it was because she was simply too sick to carry a child. Her illness from prison still hadn't gone away, and she often felt too exhausted to get through the day without frequent periods of rest. She knew that Connor noticed, but he didn't say anything.

However, even taking Christine's illness into account, Connor remained the perpetual problem in the Jones household.

While other things functioned smoothly, Connor stayed his usual self. The only times Christine saw fragments of the brother she used to know was during his nightmares. He would wake up, covered in sweat and frantic, to bury his head in his sister's shoulder.

"Don't leave me again," he would sob, staring at her. "You have to promise."

"I won't make a promise that I cannot guarantee I'll be able to keep, darling. But I'll do my best. I love you very much," she murmured, rocking him gently.

Then, during the day, he would revert to his usual angry self, sometimes even having fits that ended with Christine having a few bruises. At his worst, he even cracked one of her ribs.

Christine did see some improvement, though, in the fact that he actually seemed to regret his actions.

"I'm so sorry," he moaned after the rib incident, blinking rapidly. "I just get so angry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I just think that everyone is going to hurt me, but you're the only person who never does."

Then, in spite of everything he'd just done to her, Christine had to wrap him in a hug.

It wasn't until 1799 that he finally went too far.

"Mama, mama!" Liam cried, running in with a broad grin, his father following more slowly behind him. "Guess what?"

"What?" Christine asked absently, stirring a pot over the fireplace.

"Martha had babies! Aunt Sari said the she was just getting extra fat, but Uncle Gavin said she was going to have babies and she was right!"

Christine looked taken aback. "Well... that's nice, I suppose." Edward hid a laugh behind his hands.

"Bloody hell," Connor grumbled from his usual chair next to the fireplace, where Christine had been telling him a story. She'd discovered that stories helped to calm him down, so long as they contained nothing that reminded Connor of anything traumatic.

"There are eleven of them and they're tiny! Do you think I can have one?"

Fortunately, Christine was saved from having to respond by a small woman in a cloak entering, almost tripping over the door in her haste to get in.

"Jayne, what brings you here?" Christine asked with a smile. Connor glowered at her from his chair.

Jayne ran to Edward and threw her arms around him, holding on for much needed comfort. Edward shot his wife a look of dread. Neither had seen Jayne in such a state since she'd come with the news of Evelyn's impending execution.

"Aunt Jayne! Martha had babies!" Liam crowed, jumping up and down.

"Liam, I think it may be time for you to do some reading. Why don't you read that book about sailing that your father got you?" Christine said with a meaningful look. Liam nodded briskly and scampered off.

"What's wrong?" She asked the second her son was out of the room.

"Oh God, Christine," Jayne moaned. Her hair, although tucked in a bun, was in massive disarray around her face. She was now a young woman of eighteen, with a pleasant, if still plain, face. At the moment, her usual cheerful features were morphed into a position of shock.

"What?" Edward prompted again, more urgently.

"I have such terrible news," she said, tears filling her eyes.

"Let me guess, your bastard father is planning to off us all," Connor drawled, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes. "What a surprise."

"Connor," Christine said sharply.

"I'm to marry the prince," Jayne blurted. "Father arranged everything. I don't want to for he seems as horrible as his father and he already had his last lover murdered, I know it, and he shan't be a good man to marry. I hear he's developed a terrible temper and he hates me ever since you ran off, Edward, and I can't marry him!"

Connor laughed humourlessly. "Well, it looks like the Larkins are getting on the throne after all. Congratulations, you two."

Both Edward and Jayne stiffened.

"It's not their decision, Connor," Christine replied, correcting his aggressive comments automatically.

"No, of course not. But what is it they say? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree? We'll be extremely lucky if Julian decides to kill her. I can just picture it now; Lord Alasdair hissing in her ear, Jayne betraying us and having us all killed, Jayne leading marches against our family in the North, the whole kingdom falling to chaos... dear, sweet, innocent Jayne will become a murderer, mark my words, just like her father and just like her brother, I'm sure. It's what all of the Larkins do. Even Liam will become a murderer and a cad, I'm certain. There's only so much your blood can do, Christine, and perhaps even your blood is tarnished. Perhaps mother had an affair, and that's why you insist on whoring yourself out to Larkins and befriending criminals and servants and _rats_-"

"Not another word, Connor," Christine interrupted as Edward stiffened beside her in barely contained anger. He had gotten much better at ignoring Connor's off-putting remarks, but even he had his limits.

"You do not know me," Jayne insisted, blushing slightly. "I'm not a killer, I swear."

"Who is Jayne going to kill, Mama?" Liam's voice came tentatively from his room.

Christine sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. Like all children, Liam was developing an insatiable curiosity, which often included eavesdropping.

"No one. Aunt Jayne is a good woman," Christine confirmed, even as Liam ran to her and buried his face in her apron.

"She hides it well, but even something that seems pure and innocent can be a rotting, festering mess underneath. That's what all of the Larkins are like," Connor sneered, pointing accusingly at Jayne.

"No, Aunt Jayne is _good_. Mama said so," Liam insisted, his lip trembling.

"She's wrong," Connor said flatly, eyes flashing as he stood. His face was beginning to turn dangerously red.

"Mama's never wrong," his nephew replied stubbornly.

"Your mother is a foolish woman who lacks all foresight," Connor snapped in reply, advancing angrily.

"Connor, calm down," Christine intervened, stepping forward and putting her hands on his chest placatingly, stopping his advance.

"How dare you say that to me! You have no idea what I went through because of _you_. You should be waiting on me hand and foot, not forcing me to endure the presence of murderers and lowlifes!" He was shouting now.

"Connor, we've been through this before-"

"I've endured enough pain for _all of you_, and it's all your fault." At the last word, Connor swung his fist into Christine's face.

"Mama!" Liam gasped, running towards the pair angrily. "Stop!"

Connor backhanded his nephew without a second thought.

"Out." Edward said, his voice low and dangerous.

Connor sneered. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, out!" He shouted, moving to Christine and helping her up. Her nose was steadily dripping blood onto the floor, and she avoided her brother's eyes.

For a moment, the room sat in a heavy silence. Liam was starting to cry, and Jayne was pale in horror and fear.

"Connor, I love you, but I can't do this anymore," Christine finally sobbed, nearly hysterical. "You hurt _Liam_. All I've tried to do is help you, but I can't have you under this roof if I know you can't control yourself around my son. Edward is right. I'll pay for you to rent a room until you find yourself a job, but, Connor, I just can't."

With a final disgusted glance, Connor spat at his sister.

"Out!" Edward snarled.

Connor left without a backwards glance, only grabbing some money on his way out.

As soon as he was gone, Liam ran to his parents and they folded him into a gentle hug.

"Good lord, I am so sorry," Jayne whispered. "I shouldn't have come-"

"Yes, you should have. We're your family," Christine said with a gentle smile, inviting her into the hug. Jayne sunk into the small family in relief. Everyone felt the absence of Connor, but Christine was ashamed that it brought at least equal relief to grief and regret.

"Everything is such a mess," Jayne whimpered.

No one disagreed.

"Julian may not be so bad, Jayne. Just remember that you can always come to us if you have any problems, alright?" Christine said.

Jayne nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "I just wish you could come to the wedding!" She cried.

Some of the tension dissipated as her brother and his wife began to giggle.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Edward said that night, watching his wife's tears silently fall again now that she was in the privacy of her own room.

"It needed to happen. He hurt Liam," Christine replied tonelessly. "I just wish-"

"I know," Edward interrupted gently, pulling her closer.

That night was not one of the happier nights of Christine's life. However, one positive thing did happen that night.

That night, although turbulent, was the night that Killian Jones was conceived.


	11. Chapter 11

The Past

* * *

"She looks just like me."

Sari elbowed her husband out of habit as Christine bit back a laugh, holding their now several-month-old baby securely over her significantly enlarged stomach.

"Particularly her complexion," Christine added with a smirk.

"Don't encourage him, for the love of God," her sister rebuked, shooting her husband a fondly annoyed look.

It seemed that Sari's baby prayers had finally been answered. In April of the year 1800, the couple had become happy parents with the birth of Ciarra. Their daughter was a beautiful baby girl with wise dark eyes and velvety dark skin like her mother, although perhaps several shades lighter. Beyond her slightly lighter skin, there seemed to be very little of Gavin visible in the infant, although Christine sometimes thought she saw a twinkle of humour in the child's eyes similar to her father's. She also knew that it was impossible for a four and a half month old child to truly have a sense of humour, but she imagined it was there all the same.

"How soon are you due, Chris?" Gavin inquired cheerfully, taking his daughter back.

"A couple of weeks, I'd wager," Christine groaned, leaning back further into her chair. "Hopefully earlier. Liam was never this restless, unless I was just too busy avoiding Martha's relatives to notice."

Gavin smiled affectionately at the mention of his pet while Sari buried her face in her hands.

"Twelve rats in my house. _Twelve,"_ she shook her head.

"Ciarra loves them, don't you, darling? You're going to agree with papa once you learn to speak, aren't you?" Her husband said in the higher pitched voice he reserved for rats and his daughter.

"He named them all! For the life of me, I still can't tell them apart, but he's always saying things like 'oh, Bria wants to play with Ciarra', or 'stop annoying your mum, Iain, or you'll make her crotchety'-"

"Do you still drop anything you're holding whenever they squeak at you?" Christine inquired.

Sari glowered, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

"Truth be told, I'm sure she'll bash Ciarra's head in by next week," Gavin chuckled. "You can't hit me while I've got our daughter," he added to his wife, who quickly dropped her hand with a huff of irritation.

Ciarra babbled and he quickly turned his attention back to the infant, babbling right back at her. Sari's mouth softened into a smile at the sight, and Christine felt her heart swell at the picture of her sister's happy family. Perhaps it was simply her pregnancy playing with her mind, but she was feeling ridiculously blessed at the moment; her sister and her friend were in love with a beautiful child, her brother had recently gotten a job and might possibly be starting to turn his life around, and she was pregnant with her second child. It was a nice change to be pregnant and surrounded by the thoughtfulness of her husband and son rather than in a jail cell. Edward hadn't been around for her last pregnancy, which meant that he was now a bit of a nervous, overly-thoughtful wreck. He hid it well, but Christine could see it in little things like his anxious questioning of Gavin about Sari's labour, or the way he had taken over most of the chores in the house. Liam was equally excited about the prospect of a sibling.

"Will I get to play with him?" He'd asked one night after he'd forced his mother to sit down. His seriousness and their position at the kitchen table made the a situation feel suspiciously like an interrogation.

"Or her. And yes, as long as you're gentle," Christine promised.

Liam nodded thoughtfully. "Will it be loud?"

"Yes, for a while," his mother confirmed. "But he or she will sleep in our room until he can sleep through the night."

"Then it will sleep with me?" Liam inquired, his eyes lighting up.

Christine laughed at her son's excitement. "Yes. It will be like having a friend over every night."

"What if he doesn't like _interesting_ things? Or what if he always does his chores and you love him better?" Lines creased his forehead as he obviously got to the crux of the matter.

_Clever boy started with the easy questions_, Christine thought fondly. "Your brother or sister may not like the things you like at first, but I imagine he or she will admire you very much simply for being older. You'll find at least something you agree on, at the very least. And even if he does all of his chores without your father or me asking him, we'll still love you both."

Liam tilted his head, clearly not convinced.

"I admit he'll require more of our attention at first because you're old enough to take care of many things yourself-" Liam sat up straighter with pride "-but we'll still love you equally."

"I guess that's okay, then," Liam said with an authoritative nod, standing up to get his wooden toy boat. Christine laughed silently as he started sailing it around the room.

On August 18, 1800, she gave birth to her second son late in the evening. Liam spent the night with Sari, Gavin, and his cousins while a panicking Edward stayed with his wife.

"I don't need a doctor," she insisted irritably once labour started. "I didn't have one last time, and I certainly don't need one this time."

Edward turned pale enough in response to cause Christine to suspect an imminent fainting episode, but she remained stubbornly set against a doctor.

"I don't want anyone else poking around down there," she snapped, and that was the end of that.

"Is it supposed to be so painful?" Edward exclaimed worriedly a few hours later.

"Bloody hell, of _course_ it is. What on earth gave you the ridiculous idea that pushing a person out of you was supposed to be easy?" Christine panted, sweat dripping down her forehead.

"Can't I do anything else to assist you?" He demanded, wiping away the sweat with a cool cloth and biting his lip worriedly.

"Stop panicking! You're making me anxious," his wife replied, gripping his hand and continuing to push.

She was extremely grateful that labour was much shorter the second time, partially for herself but mostly for Edward's sake. When their son was finally born, he breathed a larger sigh of relief than she did.

"There. Not so bad," Christine chuckled weakly.

Edward was holding his newly-cleaned crying son with a look of amazement on his face. With his degree of engrossment in his child, Christine wasn't even sure that he'd heard her.

"You were amazing," he told her at last, although his eyes were still fixed on his son's.

"One of my many talents," she quipped. "May I hold him?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Edward stumbled over his words as he gingerly placed the infant into his wife's waiting arms.

It had been so long since Liam had been small enough to cradle in her arms that Christine felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to do it again with another child. It was a strange thing to realize that this infant had been inside of her less than an hour ago, but now he was staring at her from her arms.

"So you're the cause of all of this trouble," she murmured softly, feeling every ache in her body from its recent ordeal.

Edward leaned down and pressed a kiss to his wife's cheek before continuing to stare at his son.

"I wish that I'd been there last time," he whispered.

"Me too," Christine agreed. "But you were there not too long after. And now we get to do it all again." The thought thrilled her.

Edward nodded. It made Christine smile to see how dazed Edward was from watching his son be born. The miracle of birth, indeed.

"You survived your first pregnancy and your first delivery. I think you should be quite proud of yourself," Christine added with a laugh.

Edward smiled, before placing a gentle kiss to the head of his new son.

"I love you, Killian," he murmured.

"Killian?" Christine inquired with a knowing smile.

"Yes. It's only fair that I get to name this one."

"Not Alasdair?"

Edward looked at Christine and there was a beat of silence before they both broke into quiet giggles.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"They didn't talk about names before you were born?" Emma said in disbelief.

Killian chuckled. "Oh, they certainly did. They just didn't come to any acquiescence. My mother actual suggested Killian; it was the name her father used when they went to the Southern Isles and he was trying to keep their identity somewhat secret-"

"Crewe wasn't your mom's real last name either?"

"No, of course not." Killian looked at Emma as if the fact that the thought had even occurred to her was a shock. "Well, her real last name is debatable. My grandfather was adopted, if you recall, and most likely his adopted father's bastard. If that was the case, he could have technically taken his father's name, although others would have frowned down upon him for it. He could have taken his mother's, but her identity was never disclosed to him... probably a prostitute. His original last name was just one he chose for himself. If you consider it that way, my mother never really had a 'real' last name to change. She was just so used to 'Crewe' from her years in hiding that she kept it until she married."

Collapsing further against the tree trunk as names and family members swam through her mind, Emma let out a small groan. "That is confusing."

Killian raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Anyway, my father argued that naming me Killian Jones would be like naming me Jonathan Jonathan. I guess the name grew on him, though, or else he was just attempting to please my mother."

He said the last part so derisively that Emma had to work to hide her surprise. He pointedly ignored her reaction as he dove back into his anecdotes, clearly not wanting to discuss the topic further.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Liam was delighted to have a little brother. He was certain that his future was now securely filled with toys and games and fun-filled evenings of chatter.

That changed about a week after Killian was born.

"Doesn't he _do_ anything?" Liam demanded as Christine gently placed her son in his cradle to sleep.

"Shh," Christine hushed, ushering her son from the room.

"Mama," Liam complained. "Does he only sleep?"

"He'll do more when he's older, love," she promised with a grin. "First he has to grow up a bit."

"But he's so dull and loud now," Liam groaned. "How long do I have to wait?"

"Just a few years," Christine promised.

"'Just'?! I shall be _old_ by then!" He declared in the perfect picture of six-year-old despair.

Liam eventually got somewhat used to the idea of having a little brother, and, as promised, he did eventually grow old enough to play even if his games weren't what his brother enjoyed due to the age difference. However, it wasn't until just before Killian's fourth birthday that Liam's dislike for his brother peaked.

Christine was making dinner and singing. Hearing her sing at all hours of the day was not unusual; she sang so often that both Killian and Liam assumed that 'home' was a place where _everyone_ just sang for several hours a day.

Today, she was practicing for the newest opera taking place in a quiet, unpopular theatre close to home. As a result, she was using her prized, if battered, tuning fork to make sure that she was actually singing in the right key.

"Mama, can I go see the ships?"

Christine paused and frowned slightly. "By yourself?"

Liam paused looking guilty. "Yes?"

"No, I don't want you going there without Gavin or your father. There are always criminals and pirates, no matter how many guards there are... no, not until you're older, sweetheart," his mother told him apologetically.

"It was worth a try," Liam muttered, flopping down at the kitchen table.

Christine reached for her tuning fork to find her note again. She was just about to strike it when she heard a quiet hum. She turned to see Killian watching the tuning fork with his strikingly blue eyes.

Furrowing her eyebrows, Christine hit the tuning fork against her knee and held it to her ear. He was humming the exact note. After a moment of hesitation, Christine purposely started her aria on a different note and watched Killian's young face flood with confusion.

"What is it, love?" Christine asked, although she was fairly certain she already knew.

"That's wrong," he said without hesitation, and then started humming the start of her aria on the correct note.

"Edward!" Christine called, eyes wide as a pregnant Martha.

Edward, who had been changing after a day of work at the docks, came running to the living room.

"What is it?" He demanded urgently.

"Killian!"

His eyes flew to their son in alarm. "What about him?"

"He has perfect pitch!" Christine shrieked in excitement. "Killian, show papa. What is the note mama's tuning fork makes?"

Killian hummed it, looking a little nervous. Christine's face lit up in response.

"Oh," Edward said, looking not nearly as excited as his wife but still slightly proud.

Liam glowered from the corner.

On Killian's fourth birthday, Christine gave him a life-changing birthday present: her father's violin.

"I thought that I could teach you!" Christine said with a bright smile. "I can't say I know too much about it, but my father taught me the basics. Then, once we move past that, perhaps I can ask one of the violinists in the theatre orchestra to take over."

With a delighted smile, Killian picked up the violin, all other presents forgotten. Christine quickly showed him how to tune it, and then he put it up on his right shoulder.

"No, sweetheart, other shoulder," Christine tried to say.

She was cut off by Killian dragging the bow lightly across one of the strings. A huge, toothy grin filled his face as a sweet, resonant sound filled the room. Hesitantly, he put his finger on one of the strings and drew his bow across it while pulling his finger up and down the string slowly. Liam winced as the slow glissando filled the room. Killian did it on every string while Liam and Edward exchanged doubtful, slightly pained looks.

Then, Killian began to play the most recent aria Christine had been singing around the house. He finished with a delighted laugh to absolutely stunned looks from his parents and a venomous look from his brother. Seeing Liam's face, Killian's smile slid off of his face.

"Do you want to try, Liam?" He offered.

Liam scowled. "No, I don't."

Christine watched her older son thoughtfully.

Later that night, once Killian went to bed, Christine drew him aside.

"I have a secret to tell you," she told him with a fond smile.

"That you like Killian better because he's a musical prodigy?" Liam said sulkily.

"No," Christine said slowly, beckoning her son over to sit with her. "I just wanted to tell you something that my father told me when my brother was born."

Liam scowled. "What?"

"Well," she replied carefully, "I didn't like him so much at first-"

"Because he's scary?" Liam guessed. Connor hadn't been over since the now infamous fight that had ended in him striking Liam and being kicked out of the house.

"He wasn't scary then," Christine replied softly.

Liam snuggled into his mother's shoulder. "Then why didn't you-"

"Because everyone seemed to think he was so adorable and they said it all the time when I was around. Everyone seemed to love him and ignore me just because he was younger. It seemed horribly unfair.

"Then my father told me something that changed everything. He reminded me that Connor was _my_ brother."

"Isn't that the problem?" Liam sulked.

"Well, what he was saying was that whenever anyone complimented my brother, they were complimenting me because he was _mine_."

"Oh," Liam said, sounding slightly baffled. "I didn't think of that."

"Nor did I," Christine whispered conspiratorially. "But it certainly helped. Whatever accomplishments Connor did made me proud, because it reflected well on me. After all, he belonged to me. He was _my_ brother."

Liam stared at his mother and she could practically see his brain working as he processed her words. Internally, she congratulated herself on fabricating such a useful story.

The next day, Christine had a few of her musician colleagues over and Killian played the violin for them. Her friends were baffled and amazed at first, but that soon melted away to amusement as Liam walked up to them.

"That's _my_ brother," he told them proudly.

Christine winked at Edward as he turned to her in shock.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"So, you _were_ a violin prodigy," Emma groaned accusingly.

"A little bit," Killian admitted, looking slightly embarrassed.

"And you seriously just picked it up and played? Just like that?" She demanded. "How?"

"Well, once I heard where on the string each note sounded, it was easy," Killian explained, sounding slightly baffled by her question.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian loved his violin.

He couldn't understand why everyone was so impressed by his playing. To him it was as natural to play it as it was to walk, and the realization that other people didn't feel that way was shocking to him.

The first time he played a note on the beautiful instrument, he could swear that he felt the earth shift. He loved the way it felt to drag the bow along the string and feel it vibrate in response to his touch, letting out sweet sounds in a large variety of voices. He could make the smallest adjustment, and the sound would completely change. He went to play the instrument and it felt like the entire world disappeared, just leaving him and whatever melody decided to come from his fingers.

His mother had tried to get him to change the hand he played with so that he played correctly, but he inevitably returned to playing it left-handed. He was right-handed, but it felt so much more natural to him to make each note with his right hand and to have his left hand do the bowing. The other way just felt backward.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma cut in. "That was fortunate."

"Very. One of the few ways lady luck has been kind to me," Killian acknowledged with a wry smile.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian also liked the time he spent with Christine when she taught him about music. She'd discovered quickly that she couldn't teach him much about actually playing the violin, but she taught him music theory and, perhaps more importantly, ways to express the music. In fact, he fully believed that almost everything he learned about musicianship came from simply listening to his mother.

Of course, a big part of Liam and Killian's childhood had been sitting backstage while Christine performed. If Edward ever had to work later in the evening, their sons would go with their mother to the opera. Sometimes they would play together with toys they brought, sometimes they would read, but, most of the time, they listened as their mother's voice filled the small theatre.

Sometimes, Aunt Sari and Uncle Gavin, or even Edward and Aunt Jayne (if she could sneak away), would take them to sit in the audience. That was what Killian enjoyed the most, because he loved to see his mother get lost in different worlds so completely. She was his mother, yes, but for several hours, he got to see her become someone else. He always hugged her extra tightly when she came back to being her.

It was during one of those performances that something groundbreaking occurred.

Christine was partway through the aria when guards stormed in. Killian watched as his mother's face turned as pale as snow, but the guards weren't there for her.

"Attention! We are here to confirm what you may have already heard. After a long and difficult illness, King Clayton, the first of his name, has passed on from this life."

Christine tuned out the rest of the speech as she felt her heart sink. She locked eyes with Edward, who was in the audience, knowing exactly what this meant.

First of all, Julian, a man who now hated Edward more than anyone, including Alasdair, was now king.

That meant that Jayne was now queen, and they would inevitably see less of her.

Most of all, it meant that life was about to change dramatically for the Jones family.


	12. Chapter 12

This is a bit of a darker chapter, and I decided to change the story rating as a result because of the more mature themes. Again, there are no explicit descriptions, but the subject matter is far better suited to a mature audience.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Seeing Aunt Jayne was always a treat when Killian was young.

A few days after the king died, he was playing with Ciarra at her house when Liam came running in through the door. As Killian was accustomed to, this resulted in a surprised Sari, which meant that she dropped whatever she was holding. In this case, it was the pot of stew she was about to put over the fire.

"Liam!" She admonished, looking at the mess of potatoes, lentils, vegetables, and broth in dismay.

"Sorry, Aunt Sari. Killian, Aunt Jayne is here!" He panted, his eyes alight.

Killian jumped up immediately and sprinted after his brother. Ciarra scowled at the interruption, but she knew from experience that Aunt Jayne arriving at Killian's house meant that playtime was over. Killian ran through his front door and immediately threw his arms around his aunt, who was talking seriously with his mother. When she came, his mother usually became quite serious, but sometimes whatever Aunt Jayne had to say made lines of worry fade from Christine's face. Usually, that sort of conversation involved words like "still secret" or "Southern Isles" or "not looking for you".

It took Killian only five seconds to realize that today was not one of those days.

"Hello, little one," Jayne smiled down at him, lifting him into her arms. Being up closer to her face confirmed his suspicions; those were definitely tears on her cheeks.

"You're upset," Killian stated as if waiting for someone to contradict him. In his experience so far, adults didn't really cry, so this was rather strange.

"A little," she laughed through her tears, hugging him tightly enough for the strong scent of vanilla to pervade his nostrils.

He found out the reason as soon as his father came home.

"Jayne," he said in something almost like relief as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. She held on and didn't let go for some time.

"I feared you would be unable to come," his father commented in his deep voice.

"As did I," Jayne admitted.

Edward led her over to one of their chairs. She always looked a bit out of place in their home, even in her less fine clothes. She tried hard to disguise herself to a degree, but even the most ragged of her clothes were still made of fine materials and stood out among the less lavish decorations of the Jones home.

"I really just came to say goodbye," she sniffed, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm to be crowned queen on Friday, and I doubt that I shall be able to sneak out again once that happens. It was hard enough today."

"We appreciate it very much," Christine told her, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly.

Killian stared at his mother in amazement. Why wasn't she telling her that she had to come back and visit? Jayne's visits were rare, yes, but he loved his aunt. She was quiet but she smiled when Killian played violin for her, and she was always happy to join in the children's games (she could be an excellent pirate when they played 'pirates versus navy'; only Christine was better).

"But you'll come see us eventually, right?" Liam cut in. Killian could always trust him to ask the important questions.

Jayne started to cry in earnest and Killian looked to Liam in alarm.

"It's uncertain, darling, but perhaps not," Christine explained quietly.

Jayne left soon after that, and everyone cried, even Killian's father.

"I'll miss you all very much. You're more my family than anyone," Jayne sobbed into Edward's chest. "I love you all more than you know."

"Be careful," Christine murmured pulling Jayne into a hug.

Then, with a few last hugs and goodbyes, Jayne was gone.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Did you ever see her again?" Emma asked softly.

"You're ruining the story, Swan," Killian said petulantly. "I can't tell you things out of order."

"But she's dead?"

Killian rolled his eyes. "Of course she's dead, Swan. Everyone in these stories is dead."

He said it so matter-of-factly that Emma felt strangely sad. Then again, perhaps so many years had passed that he'd learned to divorce the words from emotion.

* * *

The Past

* * *

It was a very sombre night in the Jones household after that. They sat down to dinner in silence except for a few sniffs.

"I thought that it was good that the king died," Killian finally said in confusion.

His parents looked at him in surprise.

"Well, you didn't seem to be very fond of him," he muttered rebelliously into his mashed potatoes.

There was a long pause. "It's complicated, love," Christine told him gently.

Killian still didn't understand, but he went back to his dinner anyway.

That night, Edward came to tuck his boys in. Liam insisted that he was far too old at eleven to need to be tucked in, but he agreed that it was acceptable for a four-year-old. He never seemed to really mind his father's presence, though, which led Killian to believe that he just wanted to appear mature when he really enjoyed the excuse to talk to whatever parent was doing the tucking in.

Liam's secret was safe with him.

"Father, will Aunt Jayne be alright?" Liam asked worriedly as Edward secured the covers around his younger son.

Edward looked unhappy, but said, "It's likely she will be, yes."

"Promise?" Killian asked with a pout.

His father smiled and ruffled his son's hair. "I promise that your Aunt is an intelligent woman, which can get one through most things in life. That's why it's important for you both to study hard."

Both boys had received the education lecture many times before, so both of them nodded automatically without really registering his words.

"Are you terribly sad, Papa?" Killian inquired, feeling very concerned about the tears he had seen earlier. Yes, his father cried very stoically, but up until today he'd believed that adults _never_ cried.

"Well, yes, Killian. I'm going to miss my sister, but you don't need to worry about me."

He blew out the candle and left with the usual "good night"s and "I love you"s.

"He's lying," Liam stated authoritatively the second the door closed. "We do need to worry about him. He and Mama are terrified about something."

"Evil grandfather?" Killian asked, just to confirm.

"Of course," Liam said derisively. Killian fully accepted that Liam was far more wise than he was, but he still disliked Liam's know-it-all tone.

"What do you think he looks like?" Killian wondered aloud. "Do you think that he has fangs and red eyes and-"

"He has a beard," Liam interrupted authoritatively. "All bad men have beards. And he's probably fat from the children he eats."

"Oh," Killian said, trying to picture his grandfather. He hoped he didn't like eating small boys. Surely he'd prefer bigger ones like Liam. The thought was comforting, because Liam was better at pretend sword-fighting and he thought he might stand a chance.

"Well, good night," Liam said cheerfully, turning his back to his brother and closing his eyes.

The next morning, Killian woke up before Liam. He walked into the living room to see his mother writing in her journal, still dressed in her nightdress and robe.

"Mama?"

Christine looked up with a smile. "Yes, love?"

Killian looked around to make sure the coast was clear before creeping forward into his mother's lap.

"Does evil grandfather really eat children?"

It wasn't that he didn't trust Liam, because he did, but he knew that sometimes Liam tried to scare him. If he wasn't ever totally sure about the validity of Liam's claims, he always went to his mother because he was fairly certain that she was the smartest person he knew.

Swallowing a small giggle, Christine shook her head. "No, darling, he doesn't eat children. He eats happiness. That's why we don't like to have him around."

Killian nodded seriously. Her theory made more sense than Liam's. He'd bitten Liam once when Liam was being too bossy, and even though Liam yelled very loudly, he hadn't bitten a piece out of him. He'd only left teeth marks. That meant that unless his grandfather had fangs, eating children would be very difficult.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You bit your brother?"

Emma began to laugh helplessly at the thought.

Killian was unbothered. "It is infinitely clear that you are an only child, Swan."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Today we're going to see the ships," Christine told them brightly over breakfast. Too brightly.

Her younger son paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Why?"

Liam looked at his mother equally suspiciously. "Are we leaving?"

She sighed, but Killian thought he detected a glimmer of pride in her eyes. "No, loves, but we need to be out of the house today. Your father is building us a hiding place, just like hide and go seek, and we can't be in the way."

"Couldn't I help?" Asked Liam, insulted.

"Not today, darling. I know you're growing up, but we'd still rather you didn't get hurt accidentally."

"I wouldn't," Liam argued.

"Why do we need a hiding place? If we all know where it is, it won't be any good for hide and seek," Killian interrupted, feeling thoroughly confused.

"We won't be playing hide and seek with each other, Killian," his brother retorted scornfully.

Christine and Edward exchanged a look. Killian hated the look, and he was fairly certain Liam did too. He could sometimes understand what they were saying, but his parents insisted on doing it anyway. He wished they would just tell him exactly what they were saying to each other. It wasn't like he would tell everyone, and he was more than old enough to understand whatever his parents were trying to hide from him.

"It's just a precaution," Edward said in his posh accent (Killian much preferred his mother's). "But, no, it will be for if we need to hide from-"

"Evil Grandfather?" Killian interrupted.

Liam rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Or the king, right Mama?"

Edward and Christine exchanged the look again, only this time it seemed to be a proud look mingled with exasperation.

"We should know better than to attempt to keep anything secret from these two," Christine grinned.

Smugly, Liam nodded. He'd been trying to tell his parents that for a long time, but Killian doubted that this one conversation would yield the results his brother wanted.

"Apparently," Edward said with a sigh, looking slightly concerned. Killian knew that his father had a fairly sheltered childhood, at least if Mama's teasing was anything to go by. That was probably why he thought that they couldn't handle the truth.

Edward gave them each a kiss as they went out (or tried to; Liam insisted on a handshake, so his father settled on ruffling his hair).

Now that Killian knew they weren't running away on a ship, he was happy to go down to the docks. He liked it there. Everything was always busy, and there was always a market set up there where merchants arriving from far-off places would sell their wares. It smelled like spices, and sometimes there would be musicians playing along the docks. They were never as good as Christine or Killian, but he liked their playing anyway.

He also liked looking at all of the ships docked in the harbour. There were huge, graceful ships and smaller, more efficient looking ships. He couldn't decide which he liked better. Fortunately, he had Liam to tell him all about them, because Liam was a veritable expert on ships. Killian didn't know as much since he was younger, but he hoped to be as clever as Liam one day.

Killian was gaping at one huge ship that was just sailing off when he walked straight into a well-dressed older man with greying hair and sharp grey eyes.

"Pardon me," he murmured, backing up.

The man glared at him in disgust, wiping off his pants with a handkerchief that smelled strongly of lavender.

Christine had noticed what had happened and was now rushing back.

"Killian, come along," she told him gently, grabbing his hand.

"You need to keep better track of your children," the man was saying coldly. Killian bristled at his tone. No one talked to his mother like that.

"Apologies, sir," she said politely, but she trailed off as their eyes met.

Killian looked between the man and his mother as silence fell between them. The blood had drained from his mother's face, and she was currently looking as though she wanted to sprint away. Her hand tightened around Killian's, and he could swear he felt her trembling. The man looked just as shocked but oddly triumphant. He reminded Killian of a mad, stray dog that had once prowled down his street. He'd watched through the shuttered windows as the dog had tracked one of Martha's offspring and snapped him up in his jaws (Gavin had looked close to tears). The dog's eyes had looked empty, but his lip had curled in a very menacing way that sent shivers down Killian's spine. This man looked just like that dog, if that dog had been rich and not foaming at the mouth.

"I told him you weren't on the Southern Isles," the man commented.

"I don't believe we've met before, Sir," Christine said with the curtsy and accent she used when she played paupers in the opera.

The man raised his eyebrows skeptically with a knowing smirk. "As I told you before, my dear, for someone who acts for a living, you really do a terrible job at lying when it truly matters."

Killian glared at him and debated kicking him in the shin. Unfortunately, Christine knew him too well and gripped his hand harder, shooting him a warning look.

The dog-man followed her look and seemed to look at Killian for the first time.

"And this is your son? Handsome boy. He looks just like you."

Killian's scowl deepened.

"Especially with that face," the man added with a humourless chuckle.

Killian stuck his tongue out at him.

"Killian, go find Liam, sweetheart. Mama needs to talk to this man," she ordered, leaving no room for argument. He rarely heard that voice, but, when he did, he didn't dare disobey. With a final dirty look at the fancy man, Killian scampered away.

He didn't find Liam, though. Instead, he watched his mother and the man from a distance. His mother looked angry and frightened, and the man looked as if he'd just won something. Killian hoped that he _had_ won something, like a ship. If he had, he hoped that someone burned that ship into a pile of ash. Or maybe he'd won a horse. If he'd won a horse, he hoped the horse kicked the man in his smug, stupid face.

Liam found him eventually, and stared at the man with Killian.

"Who is he?" Killian asked worriedly.

Frowning, Liam looked him up and down. "I have no idea."

As they watched, the man walked closer and closer to their mother, who stood her ground and kept her face neutral. Finally, he leaned forward and appeared to be whispering in his mother's ear. As he stepped back, his mother nodded tersely. The man smirked and walked away, leaving Christine standing there looking miserable. She closed her eyes, before returning her face to a neutral position and looking around for her boys.

Killian ran to her and wrapped his arms around her legs.

"Change of plans, my loves. I'm afraid I have to run an errand this afternoon. I'll have to drop you off at Aunt Sari's, alright?"

"Why?" Killian asked suspiciously as Liam asked, "Is the errand related to that man you were speaking with?"

Christine clenched her jaw. "I'm afraid I can't discuss it anymore, but you have nothing to fear, understand? However, I do need the two of you to keep a secret. You can't let anyone know that I ran into that man. Can you do that for me?"

Her sons nodded solemnly and she smiled, pulling them both into a tight hug.

She dropped them off with Aunt Sari, saying something about buying Edward a birthday present. Then she kissed them goodbye and ran off. Aunt Sari was frowning as she watched her leave.

"She'll figure out something's wrong. Aunt Sari is smart," Liam muttered to his brother.

"What's wrong?" Asked Ciarra, popping up beside them.

"Nothing," Liam replied in irritation.

Killian hoped that it really _was_ nothing.

* * *

Christine opened the door with trembling hands.

It was surreal to be back inside the palace. The rooms and halls were all achingly familiar, but it had been so long since she was there that it felt as though she was dreaming. Very little had changed within the palace over the years, but everything still felt ridiculously strange. It was after a moment of reflection that she realized that perhaps the most important part of this equation had changed since she'd been here: herself. She'd been seventeen when she was last here. She had been infatuated with Edward, frightened for the fate of her brother, and thoroughly helpless and trapped. Now she was twenty-nine. She was a mother. She was someone who had grown accustomed to independence, love, and control. But one thing had not changed.

She was terrified.

She had so much more to lose now, and so many more people would be affected if she played the wrong cards. Losing wasn't an option, not if it meant that her loved ones would suffer. She had to win, and to win, she had to play.

The door swung open with a creak, and the repulsive scent of lavender wafted towards her. She wrinkled her nose and walked into the office she remembered well from many terrifying hours of "political" discussion.

Lord Alasdair sat just where she remembered, with his back towards her. Cold grey eyes watched her reflection in the window as he fiddled with an almost empty wine glass.

"No mask tonight?" Christine inquired, proud that her voice was steady.

The man at the desk smiled. "You knew it was me."

"Of course, I knew. You really ought to try out different scents," she suggested tightly.

"And you didn't tell Edward."

Christine scoffed. "How could I? You're his father. How on earth would I explain to the man I loved that his father had some sort of perverted obsession with me?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been far wittier than my sorry excuse of a son," Lord Alasdair said with something almost like grudging respect.

"Then perhaps you ought to have gotten to know your son better. Heaven knows that I could never marry a dimwitted man," Christine retorted.

"Come in, my dear," Lord Alasdair invited smoothly. "I can barely see you."

Christine sighed. That had been the point, of course. She walked to her customary seat across from him at the desk and sat down hesitantly.

"Wine?" Offered Lord Alasdair.

Christine raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose there's a reason that you've survived this long," Lord Alasdair chuckled, taking a dainty sip from the proffered glass.

"You could have built up an immunity to certain poisons. In any case, I'd rather be fully sober for this conversation," Christine said.

"Very well," Lord Alasdair said with a shrug, taking a long drink from his own wine glass.

The wine was very red, and it had stained his teeth and lips. It looked as though he was drinking blood. Christine shuddered.

"I wasn't certain that you would come," the man continued, ignoring her reaction. "Age has done nothing to destroy your looks, my dear."

"I wish that I could say the same, but, as you've said, lies do not flow from my tongue very well," she replied sarcastically.

"I've always enjoyed your sharp tongue. Life can be quite dull here now," he chortled.

Christine decided that it was time to get to the point. "Why am I here?"

Lord Alasdair raised his eyes from her chest to stare at her face for a few seconds. "Well, I'm sure that you can guess. You have children, a husband, a brother, a life, lord knows what else... and you want to keep them safe. I have the power to destroy them bit by bit. I could have your loved ones torn apart piece by piece until they begged for death, all before your very eyes. In fact, if I let the king in on your existence, I'm sure he would happily do even worse.

"But I haven't. Why, you ask? Because you have something that I want."

"And what is that?"

"Can't you guess?" He asked intently, eyes boring through hers once again.

Christine shivered and locked her hands together in her lap, praying that he couldn't see her shaking.

"Of course, I've been going mad ever since I saw you. You're a beautiful woman, as I'm sure you're aware. Most beautiful women are, bless them, and they love to use it to their own advantage. You, for instance, used it to seduce my son, perhaps even to escape prison; I understand you had an accomplice within the jail-cell. Oh, and that foolish court astronomer, you clearly managed to seduce him as well. Then, I realized that you had a brain underneath all of that, and what is more attractive than that?"

"Perhaps the knowledge that your son was sleeping with me?" Christine quipped.

"Yes, rather irritating," Lord Alasdair admitted as he took another long drink of wine. "It was a relief to rid myself of him, of course. He failed to take after me, and I'm afraid I've never forgiven him for it."

"Thank God for that," Christine muttered. She couldn't stop shaking, and it was turning her red with shame.

"Anyway, I'm sure your position is quite clear to you. You are welcome to leave now, but I guarantee that I will track you and your loved ones down and destroy them. Then, once you're mad with grief and suffering, I may, if I'm in a good mood, end your suffering. Alternatively, you can give me what I want, and I'll forget that we met today."

Christine looked at him in revulsion. It was bad enough to threaten just her son if she didn't come to the palace tonight, but this was beyond the worst thing she could have imagined.

"Are you even human?" She hissed. "What about your son?"

"I thought I made it quite clear that I don't give a damn about him," Lord Alasdair drawled. "And I shall happily show you just how human I am through human desires, if you let me. Your answer?"

"I'll give you what you want," she spat between gritted teeth. "But only because I have no choice."

And she did. She gave him what he wanted multiple times, until she could barely walk. She bit back her tears and let him look at her and love her, even if she hated every second.

When he was finally finished, she started to shakily dress as he continued to watch her. He, of course, had only partially undressed, but insisted that she was entirely naked.

"You know, it's interesting," he commented.

Christine didn't respond. Her throat was too tight.

"You really weren't worth it. Very disappointing, in fact. Nothing more than a common whore."

Tears fell lightly from her nose onto the floor. She knew he was lying to add insult to injury, but somehow it didn't matter.

Lord Alasdair rang a bell and a servant promptly opened the door, blushing when he saw a still half-naked Christine.

"Please escort this whore outside the palace. I'm finished." He waved her away without another glance.

Christine gathered up her clothes and held them over herself as the servant walked her out, doing her best to ignore the whistles and jeers of anyone she came across. The servant gave her a final push out the castle gates, causing her to lose her footing and fall, scraping her hands and her knees on the way down. Instead of getting up, she sat and screamed until her throat was raw. Then she sobbed, no longer caring about who saw or heard her.

In truth, she didn't feel like getting up again. She half hoped that she would just be struck by lightning and die, but that didn't happen. Finally, once the moon was high in the sky, she shakily pulled on her remaining clothes and limped home.

The house was quiet when she came in, and she bolted the door behind her. Even after a day of work, the house was neat and in perfect order. Clearly, Edward and Gavin had worked very quickly; now there was just a new carpet covering the trapdoor they had built.

Quietly, Christine boiled some water and drew herself a bath. She scrubbed for an hour, intent on getting every last trace of lavender and Lord Alasdair off of her skin. Then, without a second thought, she threw the clothes she'd been wearing into the embers of the fire and watched them burn.

She pulled on her nightdress and checked on her children first. Killian and Liam were fast asleep and looked incredibly peaceful. Christine pushed away Killian's hair gently and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. Then she kissed Liam; his hair was shorter and curlier, so she didn't have to push his away.

"I love you so much," she whispered, wiping away her tears.

Then she went to Edward.

His face had been so careworn lately, but he always looked so relaxed and childlike as he slept. It reminded her more of the boy she had fallen in love with so many years ago.

Carefully, she crawled into bed beside him, reminding herself that this was what she lived for. She would go through any amount of suffering for her family.

"Christine?" Edward murmured sleepily.

"Shh, go back to sleep, my love," she murmured, gently placing a kiss on his heavy eyelids.

"Are you crying?" He asked softly, gently running a hand over her cheek.

She relaxed into his hand and sobbed. He held her as carefully as if she were something precious and breakable. He made her feel so loved, but now she felt as though she didn't deserve it.

"You know that I'd do anything for you," she cried.

"Of course I do," he said in confusion. "And I for you."

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed into his shoulder. "For everything I put you through."

Edward lifted her chin gently. "You don't put me through anything. I love you, and that means that I love everything that comes with you. Even the difficult parts."

"I love you too. More than anything," Christine sobbed.

"It's been a stressful few weeks. Everything will look better in the morning," Edward promised, giving her a kiss.

Christine nodded and curled into her husband. She held onto him all night.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Wait, so she never told him?" Emma asked, her own throat feeling tight from revulsion.

Killian shook his head, clenching his jaw. "No, not to my knowledge. I think she was too ashamed to tell anyone."

"Except you?" The thought confused Emma.

"No, certainly not me. She passed long before I was old enough for her to tell me anything like that, never mind her darkest secret. I read it in her journal, actually, and only after I was told it by the other party in the tryst."

Emma looked at him incredulously. "What was that conversation like? 'Hey, Killian, just to let you know, I screwed your mom?'"

"Something like that," Killian said, clenching his hand angrily. "But I'll disclose those details at a later time."

Emma was beginning to feel like she didn't want to hear them, but, at the same time, she felt that she needed to.

"Alright. So what next?"


	13. Chapter 13

The Past

* * *

In his almost five years, Killian had never thought of his mother as fragile. However, in the weeks following her encounter with the strange man at the docks, she seemed jumpier and sadder than he'd ever seen her.

About a month after that incident, yet another stranger appeared.

Christine was outside, hanging laundry on their small clothesline, and Killian was struggling through a book nearby (being fairly new to this reading thing) to make sure that the wind didn't blow her away. He had his wooden toy sword nearby in case the dog-man showed up as well.

His mother seemed more nervous than ever today. She was almost at Aunt Sari levels of nervous, and she worried more than anyone Killian knew.

She was hanging up the last piece of laundry when a man suddenly appeared in their yard. He had blonde hair, a scruffy beard, and sunken blue eyes. He was not a hugely tall man and was lithely built, but he was still bigger than Christine. That meant that he was a threat, although Killian would bet that his mother could beat him any day.

"Mama," Killian called urgently.

Christine turned around in a blur of dark curls.

"Connor!" She cried in delight, throwing her arms around the man.

He stood quite stiffly as his sister hugged him, but he didn't pull away. Eventually, he even brought up a hand to pat her gingerly on the back. She pulled back with a smile and examined his face.

"My goodness, I can barely see you under all of that hair," she teased.

Although he wasn't totally sure, Killian thought that Connor may have tried to smile. The result was more of a grimace, though, and was frankly terrifying.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Killian asked suspiciously. Liam had told him all about their Uncle Connor, and Killian was certain that he didn't want him around.

"I invited him, darling," Christine explained. "Connor, this is Killian, my youngest son."

Connor eyed him up and down with little interest. "He looks much more like you than the other one."

"Come in! I'll make us some tea," his sister said, taking him by the arm.

Killian trailed behind with a suspicious frown. He certainly didn't trust the man with his mother after what Liam had said.

"So, any news?" Christine asked as she busied herself in the kitchen.

Connor threw himself down without ceremony into one of their chairs.

"Well, I've a new job. I'm now managing a theatre," he told her without enthusiasm.

"That's wonderful!" Christine gushed.

"You should perform in it. You'd make all of the other singers look like squawking chickens, of course, but one good singer is better than none."

"Of course," his sister promised, shoving a warm mug into his hand and pulling up a chair beside him. "We must see each other more often, Connor. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. You're still the only person who has ever treated me kindly," he replied, and Killian sensed the first flicker of sincerity from his uncle's mouth. "I do have a question for you, though. You're always happy to visit me regularly, but I confess that I was quite surprised to receive an invitation over here. Have you finally decided to stop begrudging me that ridiculous incident?" Sarcasm bled into the latter end of his sentence.

Christine hesitated. "I suppose that I just realized that life is so short, and I would hate for something to happen to one of us without being fully reconciled. We see each other, yes, but I miss how close we used to be. I was hoping... maybe we could try again?"

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Connor shook his head. "I don't think it's possible to go back to how we were. However, in saying that, you're still the person I trust most and the person I'm closest to, even after all this time. Pathetic, isn't it? And here, you're the one that made me this way."

His sister winced. "Yes, I know, and I shall never forgive myself for being unable to save you sooner."

"I know," Connor muttered moodily into his tea. "Doesn't change the fact that it happened."

Killian resisted the urge to mimic his uncle from where he was pretending to read behind him. Christine shot him a warning look.

"What else is new?" She asked, voice strained. Killian didn't blame her; his uncle seemed like a right git.

"I'm thinking of getting married," Killian's uncle sighed, leaning back further in his chair.

Christine's eyebrows shot up. She looked so shocked that Killian wouldn't have been surprised if he'd misheard everything and Connor had said that he had a pet dragon.

"To whom?"

"A woman," Connor smirked.

Rolling her eyes, she nudged him playfully with her foot. "I assumed as much. Who?"

"No one you would know. She's a pretty fifteen-year-old who sings in my theatre sometimes. Bloody awful compared to you, but she's pretty and she's an orphan."

Christine's lips twitched. "Clearly the selling point there."

"Clearly," Connor groaned. "I'd hate to have an in-law like Lord Stick-Up-His-Arse."

"Sh!" Christine shushed him, glancing at Killian, who quickly turned back to his book in the picture of innocence.

"What's her name?" She questioned, almost bouncing in her chair now.

"Helena," he said almost reverently.

"That's a lovely name. Connor and Helena Crewe," Christine mused, looking into the distance dreamily.

"She hasn't said yes yet. But she will. She's barely got a penny to her name." Connor was so matter-of-fact about it that Killian felt his dislike for the man grow even further.

Connor did marry Helena the following winter. It was a small ceremony with mostly just colleagues and family, and Aunt Sari cried of happiness. Christine didn't cry, but she did beam with pride.

"That's because it's _her_ brother getting married. It reflects well on her, you see," Liam explained in his usual know-it-all tone.

Killian had seen Connor only a handful of times-

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma groaned.

"Seriously? More hand jokes?"

* * *

The Past

* * *

-but the wedding was the first time he'd seen Helena.

She looked old to Killian, but a year is an eternity when you're five. She was barely sixteen when she married, and Killian couldn't help but notice that she didn't look too happy, even when she smiled. She was a short woman with white blonde hair, hazel eyes, and pouty lips that naturally fell into a frowning position. Where his mother was very thin, Helena was stocky with large breasts and hips.

Killian trailed behind his mother sulkily when she went to congratulate her new sister-in-law. As was typical of Christine, she enveloped a very surprised Helena into a warm hug. She looked frankly relieved when Christine released her.

"Welcome to the family," she told her cheerfully.

Helena grimaced. "Thank you, I suppose."

Christine continued to chat with her about what a beautiful bride she'd been, how lovely the ceremony was, and how excited she was to get to know her better. Helena nodded in feigned politeness throughout. However, as his mother turned around, Killian noticed Helena's face shift instantly into an expression of intense dislike.

"Come along, love," Christine told her still staring son.

That night, Sari, Gavin, and Ciarra came over for dinner. It was a celebration of Martha, who had recently passed away, in addition to a celebration for Connor. Still, despite the occasion, Christine refused to allow Gavin to bring any rats into her household.

"It was a miracle that she lived so long, really," Gavin sniffed, looking remarkably heartbroken.

"It's alright, Papa," Ciarra told him, climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms around him.

"It was because she was so loved. No rat could have asked for more," Edward told him solemnly.

"A toast!" Christine interjected, raising her glass of white wine; she'd recently decided that she couldn't stand red.

"To Martha!" Sari began, who was doing only a half-decent job at hiding her pleasure at having one less rat in the house. "And particularly to her inability to reproduce ever again."

"To family," added Edward with one of his rare smiles.

"To children," Gavin sobbed. Killian suspected that perhaps he'd had too much wine.

"And to peace and happiness for us all," Christine finished, downing half of her glass in a single gulp.

Looking back at that night years later, Killian would remember it with a sense of melancholy. It had been a wonderful evening, full of laughter and tears and happy banter. It had also been the last truly happy night for his family. Within the next two years, three out of four of the adults in that room would be dead.

* * *

The guards first came in April of 1806. Christine would comment in her journal that she was surprised it hadn't happened in March. It was a shame, in fact. If it had, she might have expected it.

Gavin came running into their house one evening with Sari and Ciarra in tow.

"Edward! I heard tell that the king somehow got news that you and your family were still in the city. He's sending guards to houses all through the city to arrest anyone who looks remotely like you and Christine. It might be time to use that hiding spot," he reported worriedly.

Killian's parents exchanged the look before leaping into action; Edward packed up food, Christine grabbed her journal and anything else that might reveal the identity of the occupants of the house, and Killian and Liam were instructed to grab books (in case they were down there for a while).

The cellar was dark and could be bolted shut from the inside. The carpet was nailed down over it so that the entrance was hidden from sight, unless someone attempted to move the rug. Edward had even glued a side table beside one of the armchairs onto the rug, so that there would be less reason to assume the rug was there simply to hide something.

The area was small, but Killian didn't mind being in close contact with his family; otherwise he'd feel absolutely alone in the dark. Christine lit one candle so that everyone could see each other at least faintly, but it was still very dim and gloomy. Christine had stored some food, candles, blankets, and pillows down there in preparation, which at least made things more comfortable.

It was lucky that they were so prepared, because it took eight days for the guards to reach their house. The eight days were agony. They had to stay fairly quiet, which was boring at first, but then Christine thought up a game. She passed around some paper and everyone had to add one word to make a story. That was fun for a while. She also hummed songs and got people to guess the title and what it was about. It was a fairly quiet game, although there were many suppressed giggles.

Killian wrote music and studied music theory with his mother's watchful eye over his shoulder. He read about ships with Liam and asked his father about any questions he had. He and Ciarra invented their own sign language, which the rest of the family enthusiastically tried to learn. Everyone got quite tired of eating canned and pickled things, but things could have been worse.

At nighttime, or what the inhabitants of the cellar guessed was nighttime, Killian slept nestled between his two parents with Liam. Christine sometimes voiced her worries about Connor when she thought her sons were asleep, but Edward soon managed to push away her fears.

"They weren't looking for him, Christine. Besides, they'll know that he had half lost his mind by the time he was rescued. I don't think he'll be considered a threat," Edward murmured.

Christine nodded tightly as Sari breathed a sigh of relief. Sari had never been as close to Connor, but she still considered him her brother.

On the eighth day, footsteps pounded over their heads. Christine put a finger to her lips and blew out the candle. Killian gripped his mother's hand and leaned into his father as loud voices echoed through the house and they heard the noise of furniture and belongings being thrown around.

When the noises faded without anyone finding them, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

"Can we go up now?" Liam demanded, already standing.

Edward grabbed his hand and pulled him back down gently. "We don't know if they will return or if they've even left. We should wait at least a few more days."

Liam groaned quietly, but sat back down without another word.

They came back, as Edward predicted, two days later. Once again, everything was thrown around. It sounded to Killian like the stampedes on the Southern Isles that Christine had told him about.

"Now do we have to wait some more?" Ciarra complained irritably.

Killian didn't blame her. The small area was becoming increasingly claustrophobic and was starting to smell of unwashed humans and accumulated waste in buckets stuck in a corner. He also decided that he never wanted to eat anything pickled or canned again.

"A little longer," agreed Gavin.

Finally, a day or so later, the seven of them emerged back into the living room.

"Oh, sun, how I've missed you," Sari moaned.

"Our house," Christine said sadly, glancing around at the damage.

"We'll get it back in order in no time," Edward promised, planting a kiss on his wife.

Ciarra made the 'gagging' sign in their new sign language. Killian nodded in agreement.

The guards didn't come back for several months. The next time they came, they had less than a minute to disappear beneath the trapdoor; Edward had spotted them moving towards their street on the way home from work and sprinted down an alleyway to get there first and warn his family. Anything that needed to be hidden was already down there, and fortunately they only had to hide for a week this time.

"Sooner or later they're going to notice a pattern," Christine murmured worriedly. "Perhaps they're only checking the uninhabited houses from last time to see if people were simply away from home when they came. If we're the only house that's ever habitually empty, they're going to see a pattern. Who knows what they'll do then? Perhaps we ought to look into moving."

Edward did so the second they dared venture out from their hiding spot again. However, he returned each night with the same news.

"No one is willing to sell anything right now if it means that they may be housing fleeing criminals. I think they've backed us into a corner, Chris," he told her grimly.

Christine grimaced. "We'll just have to hope for the best then."

Guards began to appear more and more frequently, and finally, in July 1807, the first crisis occurred.

"Over here. I've found something!" A gruff voice called from overhead.

Christine breathed in sharply, and Killian felt her rise to a crouch.

"I love you," she whispered quietly to her family. "Killian, Liam, Ciarra, and Sari, stay hidden."

"Why me?" Sari hissed.

"You don't know how to use a knife or a sword. There's no point in you going out there and getting yourself impaled," Christine snapped. Killian had never heard his mother speak so sharply to her sister before.

The door opened and painfully bright light filtered down on the seven people below ground. Killian shrunk against Liam as Christine climbed out first, slashing at the man who had opened the trapdoor. Edward and Gavin quickly followed.

Sari reached for the remaining knife in their hiding place and stood with her grumpiest scowl in front of the children. Killian knew that if he saw that face on his aunt, _he_ would want to run, but he wasn't so sure about the bad guys.

The children listened in tense horror to quiet screams and grunts and other even more unpleasant sounds of battle. Finally, Christine reappeared at the door.

"It's alright now. You can come up," she announced.

The four remaining people climbed carefully into what used to be their living room but was now a graveyard for five soldiers.

Gavin was cursing quietly, his face in his hands. Beyond that, there was a tense silence. Killian ran to his mother first, then his father, wrapping his trembling arms around them tightly.

"Oh God," Sari muttered, looking at the mess.

"I second that," Christine stated, sounding remarkably calm under the circumstances.

"We'd better move quickly to get rid of the bodies," Edward muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"And where exactly do you propose we put them?" Gavin groaned. "Regardless, they're going to know some soldiers disappeared around this area, and they'll come back with a vengeance."

"Gavin, stop scaring the children," Christine ordered brusquely. "Hopefully the next soldiers won't look as well as these ones."

"The more they bring, the more likely it is that at least one of them will have a brain," Gavin pointed out pessimistically.

"Gavin!" Squeaked Sari, smacking her husband on the arm. "This is not helping."

"Let's just focus on one problem at a time," Christine added.

"Perhaps we should burn them," suggested Edward, prodding one of the bodies distastefully with his foot.

"The smell would attract every guard within several blocks," Christine pointed out. "No, we need to either bury them or throw them in the ocean. Since the latter would be infinitely more difficult, we need to find a place to bury them."

"Our house," Sari suggested suddenly. "We could build a cellar like our hiding place here, but only fill it up again. They can be buried in our main room. It's disgusting, but-"

"But practical," Christine agreed, kissing her sister gently on the cheek. "Brilliant plan."

"Thank you. But if we're haunted by any specters, I'm moving in."

"You practically live here anyway," Edward pointed out with a faint grin.

Gavin groaned. "Bloody- God- fu-"

"Language!" Sari barked.

"Yes, you're right," he finished weakly.

"Liam, can I put you on clean-up duty?" Ordered Christine.

He nodded, looking proud.

"Children? Cleaning up... this?" Sari balked.

"Christine is right. Haste is important here," Edward confirmed. "We need everyone to dig who possibly can."

Liam, Killian, and Ciarra were soon scrubbing away at the floor with matching disgust, while their parents dug and transported bodies in potato sacks-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"That's a lot of potatoes," Emma commented, sounding skeptical.

"I didn't say that they were whole," Killian pointed out.

The words caused Emma to blanch.

* * *

The Past

* * *

That night, the entire family sat around the Jones table for dinner. For the first ten minutes, everyone was in a miserable mood. Then, almost everyone dissolved into hysterical laughter led by Gavin.

"It's really... not... funny... Gavin-" Sari tittered, leaning against him for support.

"It's not. It's stress," agreed Christine, who was the only adult who hadn't succumbed to the laughter.

Killian stared at the adults, dumbfounded. He had barely touched his dinner because he was feeling ill from the cleaning, and he'd been trying to sneak it into Ciarra's waiting hands to give to the rats. It was much easier now that the adults were distracted, but he was too shocked by this turn of events to take advantage of it.

"Killian, sweetheart, could you play for us? Perhaps some music would calm everyone down," Christine suggested, staring pointedly at his half-full plate. He could never fool her.

He eagerly slipped off of his chair and grabbed his violin from the hiding spot (he hadn't wanted to leave it where someone could steal it). He began to play but paused several minutes in when he realized that Sari was laughing so hard she was crying.

"What?" He asked, slightly offended.

"It's just, that song is so creepy... it makes me think of the evil ghosts inevitably haunting my kitchen," she gasped.

"Good, that was the inspiration," he replied proudly.

The entire table burst into laughter at that.

"Oh, God. How has this become normal?" Edward asked nobody in particular, eyes heavenward.

Christine gripped his hand at that. It was only then that Killian realized that she was crying.

"Mama?"

Everyone turned and Christine buried her face in her hands.

"God... I am so sorry..." she sobbed.

"For what, love? There's nothing to apologize for," Edward told her, pulling her head gently to his shoulder.

"It was just... too close... Edward. Gavin is... right. From this point on..."

The unfinished sentence hung in the air, but even Killian and Ciarra could fill in the ending. From this point on, it was just a matter of time before they were hunted down.

"We'll figure something out," Edward promised.

"Like what?" Christine demanded. "There's nothing left to do. We can't even leave... there are guards everywhere. The second we step foot on the docks or on a road out of the city..."

Again, she didn't finish. Killian wondered if it was some strange attempt at protecting them, as if saying the words would somehow make them true. They'd be arrested and murdered. He was almost seven by now; he could certainly fill in the blanks.

"You three should just move and pretend that you never knew us," Christine added to her sister, tears falling freely onto her bloodstained, formerly pale green dress.

"We could never do that," Sari promised quietly, and Gavin nodded solemnly in agreement.

"Then I'll have your blood on my hands as well," Christine wailed. "You could take Killian and Liam," she added, turning to them desperately with the sudden idea.

"And leave you two like rats in a trap?" Gavin countered. "Absolutely not. We're family."

"We're not even related," Christine tried desperately, her blue eyes wild. "Not by blood."

Sari's eyes narrowed dangerously and leaned across the table to grab her sister's hand. "Like hell, we're not. You're my sister in every other possible way."

Then, Edward interrupted with the idea that would determine the fate of every person in that room.

"Perhaps we're just not thinking about this in the right terms," Edward said quietly. "They're expecting to see a woman who looks like you and a man who looks like me traveling together. Perhaps the solution is simply to travel alone."

Silence fell over the room as his words fell.

"We could alter our appearances to a degree. I'm sure our appearances have changed somewhat, and we just need to take advantage of that. I could go first... I'll stowaway or bribe my way onto the next ship to the Southern Isles. I'll prepare a safe way for all of you and send someone to come get you, perhaps a native from the island. Then, you could cut your hair, Chris, perhaps even dress as a man. Two men and two boys traveling together surely wouldn't be suspicious. And no one will be looking for anyone who looks like you three," he added with a nod to Gavin and his family.

Christine was crying harder than ever now.

"What do you think?" Edward asked gently.

She looked up at him helplessly. "I don't want to be apart from you again. You know what happened last time!"

"Christine-"

"But I can recognize that it's our best chance," she added miserably. "So I know we have to try."

Killian looked frantically to Liam, hoping that he would intervene on their behalf. It was really their decision as well, wasn't it? But Liam's expression was grim, and he was giving Killian his bossy-big-brother-look that said to not interfere. Considering that it was their 'best chance', he couldn't really understand why everyone looked so miserable.

Edward left two days later.

"We'll see each other again soon," Edward promised as he tucked them in the night before he left. "You two be good for your mother."

"Papa? Will there be a naval school on the Southern Isles?" Inquired Liam, who knew his father had started studying at fourteen. In December, Liam would be fourteen, and had every hope of following in his father's (brief) naval footsteps.

Edward chuckled. "I imagine so, Liam."

He hugged a teary Killian last. With some final "I love you"s, he was gone.

Neither Christine nor Edward slept that night. In the end, Christine was still awake when he got up to leave in the early hours of the morning.

"Be safe," Christine begged, leaning her forehead against his and drinking in his familiar face for what would be the last time. Then, the couple shared a long, lingering kiss.

Edward pulled away first. "I have to leave now or I'll never make it," he murmured.

"Are you sure that we're doing the right thing?"

Christine eyes searched her husband's desperately, wishing that she had an excuse to force him to stay.

"Yes," Edward promised, giving her a last kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too," Christine said.

She watched from the doorway until he turned the corner. He waved at the end of the street, and then he was gone.

Sari came over that day to keep Christine company in her grief, but she had put her brave face back on. Killian knew that she missed his father, and he often saw it in lines of worry on her face when she thought no one could see her. She threw herself into caring for her children and writing in her journal fervently, as though sensing that the time she had left to leave her words behind was limited.

If Killian had to pinpoint a day that his life began its downward slope of fortune, January 9, 1808 was the clear choice.

Liam saw the soldiers coming at the end of the street, and he had only enough time to tell Christine and Killian to hide. Sari, Gavin, and Ciarra were down the street, but Christine comforted her boys by reminding them that the soldiers weren't there for them; really, their hiding was just a precaution.

There were more feet crashing above them than ever before. Killian leant into his mother and felt her reassuring heartbeat as she sang softly to comfort her children:

"_I love the rose both red and white_

_To hear of them is my delight_

_Joyed may we be a prince to see_

_And Roses Three._"*

When they heard the soldiers attempting to move the table over the trapdoor, Christine sighed as if she'd been expecting it.

"Stay hidden regardless of what you hear, and, Liam, take care of your brother," she told her sons urgently.

Christine crawled out as before, already wielding her knife expertly. There were cries and rough voices, but then one cry stood out among the others; a cry of pain from a woman. Then, Killian heard something that he'd never wanted to hear; he heard his mother begging.

"Please, not in front of my children. Do what you like to me, but, please, not here-"

Liam's eyes widened and he grabbed another knife. "Stay here, Killian."

Killian was too stunned to respond as Liam climbed out with an angry yell. "Leave her alone!"

There was a thump, and then a scream from Killian's mother.

Heart pounding, Killian silently crawled into the living room. Liam was lying unconscious near the kitchen table with a trickle of blood flowing from his head. From his position, Killian could see Liam's chest gently rising and falling. Not dead, then, just knocked out.

The other thing he saw was a soldier standing over his mother with a sword in her abdomen. Killian felt his blood chill in his veins, and, before he could think about it, he'd picked up his brother's forgotten knife and had run it into his mother's attacker's back. The only problem was that he hadn't anticipated how difficult it was to stab someone, and he was very little, which meant that the knife did not go in far enough to kill. It only went in far enough to cause him to scream and turn around angrily.

He disarmed Killian with a simple flick of his sword, his face furious. Killian backed against the wall away from the sword as the man advanced. It was touching his chest when another soldier pushed it away.

"Our orders were to kill the woman and her husband, not children," he said sternly.

"The bastard stabbed me," argued the angry man.

"You heard me," the other said coolly, with a look of something almost like pity towards Killian.

"Well, I can at least teach him a lesson," the angry man snapped coldly. The other man shrugged and nodded towards the remaining living guards, gesturing for them to leave.

The angry man moved his sword back towards Killian and very deliberately pushed it into his cheek. Killian tried to be as brave as his mother and not cry out, but a whimper emerged in spite of his efforts.

"You are nothing," the angry man told him. "Understand? Nothing."

Then, he wiped his sword on Killian's shirt and left.

For a minute, all Killian could focus on was his rapidly beating heart, the sting in his cheek, and the hot blood dripping down his chin onto his shirt. Then, he remembered.

"Mama!"

He stumbled over to Christine, who was half-sitting against the wall. Her face looked far too pale against her dark curls, and he'd never seen so much blood in his life. What colour had her dress been before? He was certain that it had been white, but now it was blossoming into a terrifying dark red.

Her eyes fluttered open briefly with a groan, focusing on her younger son.

"Liam?" She whispered.

"He's alive," Killian confirmed shakily, wrapping his arms around his mother's neck and looking nervously into her dazed eyes. "What shall I do now? Should I get Aunt Sari?"

"Mmm," Christine agreed. "Find Sari. You all... need to... leave now...hide somewhere. I imagine... Lord Alasdair and King... will want you dead... eventually. They're nothing... if not thorough. Wait for Edward... send my love..."

"You can't die," Killian told her, leaning his face against his mother's and smelling the familiar scent of cinnamon on her.

Christine chuckled weakly. "My darling, I would... never leave you... if I had the choice."

"Then you have to stay," he told her stubbornly, wiping away tears and blood from his face. "We need you."

"Oh, my love," Christine sighed, pulling him gently against her and beginning to hum the lullaby from before.

"Stop it. I should be comforting _you_," Killian cried into her shoulder. "Please don't leave."

"Killian-" She began, tears welling up in her own eyes.

"_Please_," he begged.

"I love you... so much, Killian. Tell Liam... how much I loved him... too. I'm not so certain... that death is the end. I'll watch you whenever... I can... maybe I can send you a sign... I'll get a little bird... to sing to you... and I'll be so proud of you," she promised softly, cradling her son's uninjured cheek. "I already am."

Christine's eyes started to drift shift.

"Wait!" Killian sobbed desperately. "Don't close your eyes, please!"

To be fair to her, she listened to her son's request. Christine smiled lovingly at him and forced her eyes open.

They stayed that way.

It all looked so wrong. His mother's face was stuck and her smile was hers but her eyes weren't. She would never look at him so blankly.

That was when it hit him. There would be no more singing in the mornings, no cinnamon-scented hugs, no games, no stories, no playing violin for her and seeing the glimmer of pride in her eyes. There would be no more confidential smiles that made him feel like a conspirator in a great plot, no more licking the spoon when she made pie, no more being praised for cleverness, no more jokes with his father, no more musical laughter, no more soft cotton dresses to dry his tears. She'd never do her brilliant character voices as she read to him again. She'd never gently chide him for being so precocious. She'd never listen to him so attentively again, or see right through his latest schemes.

She was gone.

* * *

*From anon. Tudor poem. This particular extract of text is from Libby Larsen's "Jane Seymour" from "Try Me, Good King".


	14. Chapter 14

The Present

* * *

Silence fell as the musical voice of her companion drifted away. Emma glanced at him, waiting for him to continue, only to see that his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. It was not a sight she'd been expecting, and perhaps she wouldn't have noticed at all if the sun hadn't risen enough to finally give her a view of his face.

Emma looked at her hands, unsure of what to say. She wasn't entirely sure that she should say anything. Killian had known this woman for only seven of more than two hundred years of life; if recounting her death was still so painful, she doubted that anything she could say would make it even remotely better.

"Are you still bleeding?" She asked instead, deciding to pretend that she hadn't noticed anything.

"Pardon me?" If Killian's voice was slightly thick with emotion, Emma didn't let on.

"You know, that hole in your side?"

"Oh, that." Killian sounded genuinely surprised, as though he'd forgotten about it entirely. Perhaps he had.

He felt along his side with his still bloodstained hand. "Nothing. That's fortunate."

Emma frowned and moved to look at it herself.

"You know, if you want to put your hands on me, Swan, no excuse is necessary," he teased, although it lacked some of his usual enthusiasm.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that he'd been telling the truth. While she wasn't exactly squeamish, the thought of helping a one-handed pirate sew himself up with a needle and thread was definitely not on her bucket list.

"Perhaps we ought to stop with that, Swan," Killian commented with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I imagine that you could use some sleep, and I imagine that's enough backstory for a lifetime."

"You're not getting out of it that easily," Emma said pointedly. "You barely even talked about yourself at all."

Killian groaned dramatically. "You asked about my _parents_, Swan, not me."

"And I don't seem to remember you saying what happened to your dad," Emma retorted. "You didn't finish."

"He died. Finished," Killian smirked.

"Did you ever see him again?"

Killian rolled his eyes. "Yes."

Emma frowned. "Fine, then, I'll change my question. Tell me about what happened to you and your family next."

"As much as I hate to fault a lady on her verbiage, that is not a question."

"Killian!" Emma snapped.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian lost track of time after that. He lay curled against his mother, crying into her shoulder. He could almost pretend that she was still alive that way. When Liam regained consciousness, that was how he found his brother.

"Is she dead?" He asked in a choked voice, although he must have known just from looking at the blood and the vacant eyes.

Killian nodded. "She said that she loves you," he gasped between sobs that shook his small body.

After a moment's hesitation, Liam knelt down and gently closed his mother's unseeing eyes.

"We should go in case they come back," he said brokenly, rubbing at his wet eyes.

"Mightn't we bury her first? We should get Uncle Gavin-"

"I don't think that's possible," Liam replied tightly. "Go pack a change of clothes and whatever else you may need. We won't be able to come back."

Killian only burrowed deeper into his mother.

Liam sighed and knelt down beside him. "She's gone, Killian. There's nothing we can do for her now, but we can do what she'd want us to do; leave as quickly as possible."

"I don't want to," Killian whimpered. "I want her to come back."

"I know," Liam said, gently extracting Killian from Christine's body and pulling him into a tight hug. When he pulled away, he saw Killian's face fully for the first time and gasped in horror. "What did they do to you?!"

"Cut my face open," he replied dully.

"We'll have to get Sari to look at that," Liam muttered, before dropping down before their mother. Carefully, he started to pull her rings off of her fingers and unclasp her locket.

"What are you doing?" Killian demanded, starting to push his brother away.

"They'll only be stolen, otherwise," Liam explained. "Go pack, alright?"

Ten minutes later, Killian carefully gave his mother a last kiss on her now cold forehead and left his childhood home forever. With him, he had his mother's diary, a change of clothes, his composition book with some loose compositions tucked in it, a pencil, and his violin. The instrument was bulky, but he couldn't leave it behind. Liam had food, clothes, a few of his mother's personal items, and the remaining family money supply. Liam half-ran to his Aunt's house, pulling along a much slower Killian by the hand.

They knew something was wrong the second that they reached the front door. It was hanging off of its hinges as though it had been bashed in. Hearts pounding, the boys tiptoed into the house and let out mutual cries of horror.

The entire room was pervaded by the coppery stench of blood, and, just barely detectable, the earthy smell of soil. Bodies littered the floor of their Aunt and Uncle's home, both of friend and foe. Scanning the chaos quickly, Killian realized that Christine had managed to kill as many soldiers on her own as her sister and her husband had together. Maybe the thought should have filled Killian with pride, but, instead, he felt a strange numbness settling in.

His Aunt and Uncle were dead.

Uncle Gavin was underneath Aunt Sari, as though he'd been struck down first and she'd died trying to shield her wounded husband. She lay sprawled across him with what looked like the body of a scent-hound beside her. The bodies of soldiers littered the rest of the room. The rats were gone, and, noticeably, Ciarra also appeared to be absent. Perhaps, the strangest part of the whole scene was the hole in the floor, as though a giant had take a huge bite out of the living room.

"They were looking for the soldiers," Killian realized. "The ones that they buried under the floor..."

Liam nodded grimly.

"Ciarra!" He shouted.

The house echoed in a way that made Killian feel incredibly lonely. He inched closer to Liam, shivering.

"Maybe she ran away too?" Killian suggested timidly.

"Let's hope so," Liam agreed, looking absolutely horrified. "At least Mama and Aunt Sari never... I guess the good part is that..."

"They never had to live without each other," Killian finished, wiping at the tears falling rapidly down his face and stinging his cut cheek.

"We should go," Liam said abruptly, turning around and leaving. As soon as he was out of the house, he dropped to all fours and started vomiting. Killian just watched, still feeling strangely numb.

Once his brother had finished, Killian asked the question that was now flooding his mind. "Where do we go?"

"We just have to wait for Papa to come back. When he can't reach us and he knows there's a problem, he'll come find us," Liam said confidently.

"Okay," Killian agreed dully. "So... to Uncle Connor?"

Liam blanched. "No. I don't even know where he lives, and I'm not going to live with him. He's worse than the soldiers. We'll be fine on our own."

Killian nodded, shivering lightly in the chill January air.

That night, he and Liam found a back alleyway to sleep in near the closest graveyard. Liam said he wanted to be there to see their family members buried. Killian thought it was a stupid idea, but he was too sad to say so, so he just curled around Liam and tried his best to sleep in spite of the wind and the cold

The next day, the funerals took place. Apparently Connor had heard the news, because he and Helena were there. Beyond that, no one was. No one wanted to be associated with someone the king wanted dead. There were three tombstones, which the two boys found odd, because they had no idea who would have paid for them. Their questions were answered that evening when a solitary figure came to visit the fresh graves.

"The dog-man!" Killian whispered, shocked.

He stood at each grave for a moment, but paused the longest at his mother's. After a few minutes of what looked like quiet monologuing, he saluted the headstone solemnly and left.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"That's just creepy!" Emma exclaimed, shivering at the thought.

"Well, my mother was the best opponent he ever had," Killian said with a shrug. "He wanted to acknowledge the loss of a worthy foe."

"Still creepy," Emma replied.

"I fully agree," Killian acknowledged with a tilt of his head.

* * *

The Past

* * *

After the dog-man left, Killian and Liam wandered over to pay their respects. Killian had a strong urge to plunge his hands into the dirt and dig until he could get his mother out. Everything seemed so surreal and _wrong_. Maybe she would come back if she wasn't stuck underneath all of that earth.

Instead, he stubbornly planted himself on the freshly turned soil, curled up against the gravestone, and slept there. He slept there the next night, too, even though it snowed. No matter what Liam said, he couldn't get Killian to move from that spot until the food ran out a few days later.

"Killian, I'm going to buy something to eat. Will you come?" He asked tiredly.

Killian only curled more tightly into himself and listened as Liam walked reluctantly away.

He came back far more quickly with angry tears running down his face, an impressive assortment of bruises, and a rapidly swelling right eye. He pulled Killian to his feet in spite of his protests, grabbed their few belongings, and continued to sprint. When he finally stopped, they were in a narrow alleyway in a part of the city that Killian didn't even recognize. Then Liam collapsed against the wall and cried.

Killian figured that his brother would explain when he felt like it, so he collapsed against the wall too and waited.

"They took our money. I was so stupid, Killian, I should have left half with you, but they stole it," he cried into his hands.

"Who?" He asked. He was still feeling peculiarly numb and was finding it hard to care about the money.

"A few boys in an alley," his brother mumbled in defeat. "What are we going to do now?"

Killian shrugged and curled up into a ball again. It didn't really matter whether he froze to death in a graveyard or an alleyway, or whether he did it on a full stomach or an empty one.

"Hey! Get lost!" Liam shouted suddenly.

Killian lifted his head to see a shadow duck behind a doorway.

"Is it one of the boys that attacked you?" He whispered.

Liam frowned. "I don't care; whoever it is will likely rob us as soon as look at us."

The shadow shifted again, and Liam threw a rock towards him. He missed by enough that Killian knew he wasn't really trying to hit him, but it still made Killian jump.

"Stay away, or I won't miss next time," Liam threatened.

The shadow didn't move again. Night fell, and with it came fat, wet snowflakes blown down onto the children by a harsh winter wind. Killian huddled against Liam, who began to snore softly as he slept. Sleep didn't come as easily to Killian now that he was away from his mother. The alleyway smelled like piss, smoke, and cold. He missed the smell of cinnamon and even the smell of soil. He felt oddly distant from his mother here.

He was lying awake when he saw the shadow move. Even from a distance, he could determine several things; the figure was shivering violently, the figure must have been around his age, and he had no shoes.

"Liam?"

His brother woke up with a grunt. "Mmm?"

"I'm worried that he's going to freeze," Killian muttered.

Liam sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Killian-"

"He doesn't have shoes. And there's two of us but only one of him."

Liam groaned disbelievingly.

"Fine, you can invite him to join us, but only because that's the most I've heard you say all week," he mumbled, turning over towards the wall.

Killian pulled himself to his feet and approached the doorway. The shadow seemed to shrink further into the other shadows as he came closer.

"If you're cold, you can come with us. My brother can be bossy and annoying, but he won't hurt you," Killian promised.

The figure emerged from the shadows, and Killian was surprised to see that it wasn't a boy at all. It was a skinny girl with long, unmanageable dark curls and piercing grey eyes, who Killian would guess was maybe a year or two older than him. Her dress was filthy and several inches too short, exposing filthy bare feet.

"Where are your shoes?" He blurted curiously.

"Someone stole them," the girl replied with a shrug, wiggling her toes in rhythm with her words.

"Why would someone steal shoes?" Killian scoffed.

"Because they needed some. If I found someone with shoes available for me to take, I'd take them," she said in the same bossy way that Killian was used to hearing from Liam.

She peered at him curiously. "What happened to your face?"

Killian scowled. "I cut it myself to scare away annoying girls."

The girl looked impressed. "Really? You cut your own face?"

"No. A soldier did it when he murdered my mother," he admitted.

"Oh. That's even more interesting," she said with approval. "I'm Milah. What's your name?"

"Killian," he replied. "And my brother is Liam. Where are your parents?"

"They were burned alive," Milah said with relish. "I could fit through the window, so I wasn't. All that was left afterwards was a pile of ash and bones and a horrible smell. The king burned down my whole village because our neighbours hid a criminal."

"Honestly?" Killian furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes, indeed," Milah confirmed dreamily. "You should have heard the screaming. How about your parents?"

"My mother was stabbed. We're waiting for my father to find us," Killian explained.

Milah looked at him pityingly.

"He will," Killian repeated, somewhat doubtfully.

"I'm waiting for my uncle to die so he can never find me," Milah told him cheerfully.

"Why?" Killian asked in confusion.

"Because he'll sell me into prostitution or, worse, force me to get married," Milah said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"You're not old enough to get married, are you?"

"Well, no. I'm nine. But that wouldn't stop him," she said darkly. She interrupted herself to let her teeth chatter.

"We have extra clothes," Killian offered, leading her over to his brother, who was asleep once again.

He dug through his small bag and found socks first. He tossed them to Milah, who fumbled them with cold fingers but put them on gratefully.

"What's that?" She was peering into his bag with interest.

Killian followed her gaze. "A violin."

"Can I touch it?" Milah asked curiously.

"No."

Killian tossed her his one extra shirt next, which Milah wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl.

"Thank you," she said seriously.

"You're welcome," Killian said with a shrug.

Then, the two children curled up next to Liam. Killian lifted his brother's arm and put it over them for extra warmth.

"He sleeps like the dead," Milah commented sleepily.

Killian grinned. He fell asleep soon afterwards and slept the best he had since his mother's death.

* * *

"You're going to have to learn to steal sooner or later," Milah reasoned.

Liam scowled down at her. "Absolutely not. It's wrong. I'll just have to find a job."

"Looking like that?" Milah retorted skeptically.

Killian barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The number of times he'd had to listen to Milah and Liam have this conversation were becoming uncountable. They had now been homeless for a total of two weeks. Killian was feeling sick from the general lack of food and even from what little they had eaten. Over the past week, they'd found half of a fish that someone had dropped on the way home from the docks (the other half had been eaten by the dog that got there first), a burnt loaf of bread outside of a house (the birds had gotten to that one first), and a dead rat-

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma choked.

"A dead rat?"

Killian shrugged. "Hardly ideal, but one becomes far less picky when one is starving."

* * *

The Past

* * *

-which was hardly enough to sustain three growing children. They were all thin and pale, and both Liam and Killian had old blood dripped onto their clothes. Beyond that, they were all filthy. Killian couldn't imagine them being hired to clean a chimney in their current state. However, he also knew his brother well enough to know that Liam was stuck on his annoying overly-righteous morals. In other words, Milah was wasting her breath.

"We're not stealing," Liam said flatly.

Killian sighed. His brother could be irritatingly stubborn sometimes.

That was why he later snuck off with Milah to take matters into his own hands.

"Alright. Here's the plan. You're smaller, but your face makes you look like a serial killer and you're a boy. That means that I'm cuter, so I'll be a better distraction. All you have to do is take advantage of it and take as much food as you can carry," Milah muttered under her breath.

They were huddled at the edge of the marketplace together, waiting in the shadows and watching the busy square packed with soldiers, stands, and shoppers.

"Should we have a meeting place in case something goes wrong?" Killian whispered.

"Good idea. That street with the church behind the alley where we left Liam," Milah decided.

Then she stepped out with a bright smile to the nearest stall, which happened to be stuffed with bread and pastries. The vendor immediately narrowed his gaze on the girl. Killian imagined that they were probably very skilled at determining who was actually there to buy their wares and who was there for trouble. Milah was sadly thin and filthy, with her curls matted to her head. She still had no shoes, only soaked and greying socks. You didn't have to be genius to know that she was penniless.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Killian slipped over to the other side of the stand. With a quick look around to make sure that the vendor's back was still turned, he grabbed a loaf of bread and several pastries and stuffed them down his shirt. He was just turning to leave when a well-dressed man grabbed his arm.

"Thief!" He yelled loudly, his face turning purple.

Killian looked up at the man and screwed up his face, trying to force tears out of his eyes.

"Crying won't help you," the man said sternly as some soldiers started to move towards them.

Killian scowled and stomped the man's foot as hard as he could. With a yelp, the man let go and Killian sprinted away. Soldiers were attempting to follow, but Killian was small which meant that he could slip more easily between the members of the confused crowd in the marketplace. He slipped into an alleyway as soon as he could and continued to run. Now that the terror had started to fade, it was being replaced by exhilaration. He was going to get to eat, and he'd also made several soldiers look like idiots; really, what could be better?

He reached the meeting place before Milah did, but Milah arrived only a few minutes later with a smirk on her face.

"I thought that the man you stomped on was going to cry," Milah commented with a wicked glint in her eye.

"Good," Killian grinned. "He was a prat."

Liam was furious about the stealing incident, but he found himself unable to stop his brother from doing it again. At first, he refused to eat the stolen food, but then Killian made up elaborate stories about how he'd found whatever food he happened to bring to his brother. He knew that Liam didn't believe his stories, but he also knew that Liam was relieved to be able to eat without having to directly betray his morals. He didn't really understand his brother's ridiculous stubbornness and Milah certainly didn't, but he was willing to cater to him. After all, he could acknowledge that Liam really took very good care of him under the circumstances.

Killian got better and better at stealing, until he almost never got caught. If it ever crossed his mind to wonder what his parents might say if they could see him now, he pushed it away. Surely they would want him to survive, wouldn't they?

Months passed, and, while neither brother voiced it, both were beginning to doubt whether there father was actually coming back for them. In fact, perhaps it was optimistic of them to assume that their father had made it to the Southern Isles alive at all. Besides, while Killian knew that Liam was sad to give up his dream of becoming a naval officer, he also knew that they were quite capable of surviving on their own. It certainly may not have been an ideal situation, and it was true that they were always a little bit hungry, but they had each other and they hadn't died yet. Killian was quite proud of that.

As a result, it was a bit of a shock when Edward did come back.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You look surprised," Killian commented drily.

Feeling oddly guilty at being called out on it, Emma struggled for words.

"Well, it's just... you don't seem to... well, like him very much."

Killian snorted. "Is it that obvious? Well, I assure you that the reasons for that will become very plain. Unless you wish for me to stop?"

Emma just glared at him.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for," Killian sighed.


	15. Chapter 15

The Past

* * *

It started with whispers in the marketplace.

"I hear the Queen is infertile-"

"How long before she loses her head?"

"Miscarriage after miscarriage, I hear-"

"The king is furious-"

"They won't execute a Larkin-"

"Well, there's no child yet, and they've been married for years. No wonder his patience is running thin-"

"Hates her now, apparently-"

Killian frowned and pulled Milah away from the fish stand, where she was currently pushing several salmon up her sleeve while pretending to admire the cod. He ignored her protests as he led her towards the docks, where Liam was still attempting to find work with no success.

"What's 'infertile' Liam? And what is a 'miscarriage'?" Killian questioned as Milah extracted a fish from her dress and bit into the tail.

His brother bit back a faintly amused smile. "Why do you ask?"

"There were people in the market speaking about Aunt Jayne and using those words," Killian explained.

Lines of worry worked their way onto Liam's forehead. "Well, miscarriage is when a pregnant woman loses the baby-"

"Loses?"

"When it dies before it can be born. And infertile means unable to bear children," Liam said.

Killian sat and thought for a moment. "So Aunt Jayne can't become pregnant?"

"Well, those are just rumours," Liam dismissed, but Killian thought he was too pale to truly believe that.

"And what if they aren't?" Killian prodded.

"Then the king won't have any use for her. He'll need a new queen who can give him an heir," his brother told him solemnly.

Killian felt himself go pale. He didn't want to lose another family member.

That night, he looked up to the stars overhead and muttered, "Please don't let Aunt Jayne be executed."

A few weeks later towards the end of September, he joined the crowd outside of the palace to watch her die.

She looked just as he remembered her, if a bit smaller and paler. Nevertheless, while she was shaking, she walked up to the executioner without hesitation and gave him a polite nod.

"I would say 'God save the king', but I feel that he is beyond redemption. Instead, I say, God save the people of this kingdom, particularly the innocent, for the king would destroy them all."

"Can't we do something?" Killian begged Liam as their aunt lowered her neck onto the block. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving very quickly and inaudibly, likely in a quiet prayer. Killian thought she was wasting her breath.

Liam shook his head. "Not without dying ourselves. Besides, we'd never make it in time."

He was right. Just as he finished speaking, the axe fell. Killian winced.

"That's disgusting," Milah commented, looking towards what was left of their aunt distastefully.

"Let's go," Liam muttered, steering his two younger companions away from the scene.

Killian lingered behind to say a quiet goodbye to his aunt. As he turned to leave, he crashed into someone. He looked up to apologize when he realized that something about the man was extremely familiar, from his grey hair to his handkerchief to his disgusting scent.

"You!" He blurted, glaring at the dog-man.

The man looked at him in confusion until recognition registered in his granite eyes. As soon as it did, a small, cold smile spread across his face.

"Ah, if it isn't my grandson," he purred. "We do seem to have an unfortunate habit of running into one another."

Killian's jaw dropped. As soon as the dog-man said the words, he felt ridiculously stupid for not guessing who he was earlier. Of _course_ this was his grandfather.

"Maybe if you were less _fat_, it would be less habitual," Killian suggested.

The dog-man - his grandfather - grimaced, but his eyes were amused. "Charming. I see that your tongue is as filthy as you are. Not to worry, though; I can overlook your impudence because I imagine that everyone must look obese when one is as pathetically tiny as you."

"My size and cleanliness can't be helped, but you could just eat less or take your head out of your arse and look where you're going. I'm only eight and I can still insult people better than you," Killian retorted, sticking his tongue out.

The man didn't react, but just continued to scrutinize him as if he were a particularly interesting animal in a menagerie. "You certainly take after your mother, don't you?"

"None of your business," Killian said petulantly, although he was secretly proud. His mother could have a scathing tongue when she wanted to.

"Where's your father?" Asked Lord Alasdair, clearly tiring of their banter.

"Who?" His grandson replied innocently.

"My son. Edward Larkin," Lord Alasdair said slowly as if dealing with someone particularly dim-witted.

"Oh, him. My mother mentioned him once." Killian screwed up his face in thought. "Was he the one who you locked up for sleeping around?"

Lord Alasdair sighed and gripped Killian's forearm so hard that it made him wince.

"We can make this simple, or we can make this painful," Lord Alasdair hissed in Killian's ear, his disgustingly smooth face rubbing against his grandson's. "You can either tell me now, or I can take you to some men in prison who can tear you to pieces until you tell me every miserable detail about everything I wish to know. Understood?"

"I don't think so," cut in a deep voice quietly.

Lord Alasdair paused and slowly raised his head. Killian looked up and realized it was because someone was pushing a knife lightly into his grandfather's back. The man looked exhausted and thinner than Killian remembered, and he now had a beard, but he recognized him nonetheless.

"Papa!" He breathed.

Edward barely looked at him before turning back to his own father.

"Hello, father. Since we last met, you've had me locked away and tortured, murdered my mother, made my life and my family's a living hell, allowed my sister to be murdered, and, on top of everything else, I understand that you've murdered my wife while I've been away. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right here," Edward growled, his whole body shaking with fury.

"Well, Edward, I can give you several," Lord Alasdair said calmly, a small smirk on his face. "First of all, I could call for any of the soldiers around the area and have you and your son murdered-"

"Not if I kill you first," Edward snarled.

"Or, if you let me live, we could work together to overthrow Julian and sit you on the throne. That was my plan before you ran off with that woman, you know. Now that she's gone-"

Edward laughed without humour. "You honestly believe that I would choose to side with _you_?"

"Not to mention that patricide and murder would be a terrible example for your son-"

"How dare you talk to me about my son," Edward snarled.

"And I believe you're far too gutless to commit murder in public. Especially when it would likely leave your child fatherless."

"It would?" Killian looked to his father worriedly for confirmation.

"If he was caught," agreed Lord Alasdair smugly. "And he would be. Right now there are multiple guards in the vicinity with the sole aim of keeping any members of the nobility safe."

"Papa...?" Killian started nervously.

"He's bluffing, Killian," Edward replied firmly, pressing the knife a little bit further into his father's skin.

"Am I?" Asked Lord Alasdair mildly.

"Papa!" Killian said more urgently. "Please. Liam and I already lost Mama. We don't want to lose you too."

Edward paused and really looked at his son for the first time. Killian held his gaze pleadingly. He wanted his grandfather dead as much as the next person, but now that his father was back again, he wanted nothing less than to disappear with him and never come back.

The pause seemed to drag on for some time, but, finally, with a flash of anger, Edward lowered the knife.

"He's right. You're not worth it."

Killian was about to hug his father when he saw Alasdair open his mouth, take a deep breath and-

With a scowl, Killian jammed his knee up between his grandfather's legs and watched him collapse. Both Edward and Alasdair looked shocked, although the latter soon let out a groan and dropped to his knees.

"Can we go now?" Killian begged, glancing around at the dwindling number of people nervously. Was it his imagination, or were some of them moving towards his father determinedly?

Edward nodded with a faint smile, and Killian led him to what had become the children's alleyway of choice. There was a brief and tearful reunion, which Milah watched unhappily from the sidelines.

"And who are you?" Edward finally asked with a frown.

She jutted her chin out defiantly. "Milah."

"And where's your family?"

Milah's eyes lit up as they always did when she got to recount the gruesome story. "My parents burned alive. My only remaining uncle is up North, and I'm waiting for him to die too."

For a moment, Edward just looked at her strangely. Then he shook his head. "We can talk more once we get inside. I rented a room not far from here."

It turned out that "talking more" meant deciding what to do with the three children. Edward briefly explained that he had to leave the city very soon. He would probably have to travel around a lot and sometimes even run away very quickly, which meant that it might be difficult to have three children with him. In the end, the decision was quite easy. Liam solemnly told his father that he still wished to train for the navy. He insisted that there would be no danger, since his parentage was unclear through his last name and he'd never even met their grandfather. It took very little time to convince Edward, who gave him most of the money he had to cover his schooling.

From there, it was decided that Edward would pay someone to take Milah north to her uncle, and Killian would go with him. Milah was certainly unhappy with that, but Edward refused to listen to her complaints and gently assured her that being with her family was what would be best for her.

The next day, the four split up. Milah gave her two companions a firm handshake.

"I'll miss robbing people with you," she told Killian sadly.

Then she was gone, leaving both Jones brothers feeling a little bit put out.

Saying goodbye to Liam was by far the hardest part of the day, though. Killian blinked back tears as his brother wrapped him in a tight hug. It was going to be strange spending each day away from Liam. Over the last year, he had seemed like the one constant in his life. As much as he hated to admit it, he thought he'd even miss Liam's nagging and bossiness. At least the lectures and fussing had reminded him that he still had someone who cared about him.

Finally, it was just Killian and Edward.

"To the ships?" Edward suggested, ruffling his son's hair half-heartedly.

Killian nodded sadly.

"Cheer up, lad. You and I are going to travel the world. Maybe we'll even travel to new ones," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Do those exist?" Killian asked, perking up slightly.

"Some would say so," agreed his father.

"That isn't a _real_ answer," Killian muttered, but his father was no longer listening.

Seagulls were screaming as they climbed onto their ship of choice, which was going to stop at several Southern ports along the way before going along its trading route. Killian couldn't help being a little bit excited; he'd heard about ships and watched them from the shore for most of his childhood, but he'd never actually been on one. Even tied to the docks, it bucked and skittered on the waves like something alive.

Edward went to their cabin when they cast off, but Killian watched until the shore disappeared into the distance. When he happily went down to join his father, he was surprised to see him staring vacantly at the wall with moist eyes.

That night, his father cried. At first Killian thought he was imagining it, but as it crescendoed, it became harder and harder to ignore.

"It's alright, Papa," he said, wrapping his arms around his father.

His father gave no sign of actually hearing him, but simply continued to cry into his hands. After at least an hour of trying to get a response, Killian simply gave up and went back to sleep.

The next morning, Edward acted as if nothing had happened.

"What do you think of the ship?" He broke the silence conversationally as they shared a small breakfast.

Killian lifted one eyebrow skeptically. "Are you alright, Papa?"

Edward winced and rubbed his eyes. "Please don't do that."

His son blinked in confusion. "Do what?"

"Make that face," he snapped.

Shock and hurt ran over Killian's face. His father had never used that tone with him before in his life.

"Alright," he said quietly.

He ate the rest of his breakfast very quickly and scampered up to the deck. At least up there, he didn't have to deal with this strange man who seemed to have replaced his father.

His father cried again that night: loud, wracking sobs that shook the bed. With a sigh, Killian sat up.

"Papa?"

Edward turned around so abruptly that Killian jumped, his eyes wild even in the dim light.

"What?!" He hissed angrily, fists clenched.

His son recoiled. "I miss her too," Killian finally muttered timidly.

Then, Edward gently pulled his son into his arms and continued crying. Killian felt very stifled, but he didn't want to upset his father any further by pulling away.

"I'm so sorry," Edward was sobbing over and over again.

"For what?" Killian asked, baffled.

"You look so much like her," he finally whimpered.

Killian didn't really know what to say to that, so he just let his father continue his noisy grief ritual.

He managed to avoid his father for the entirety of the next day, but the next night was even worse.

"Why did you keep me from killing him?" He whispered brokenly.

"Who?" Killian mumbled, half-asleep and doubly exhausted from the past two sleepless nights.

His father shook him awake angrily. "My _father_. Why did you have to look at me with _her_ eyes and tell me that I was doing the wrong thing? He'll come after us now, and it's entirely your fault. Think of all the people I could have saved if you'd just let me!"

"I-I'm sorry," Killian stammered in response.

"It was like with my mother all over again," he muttered. "All about doing what's best for the children or for the most people. Well, dammit, that man deserved to die. Why didn't you let me do it? How is it that, inevitably, whatever I try to do for the good of my family is _selfish_?! Why wasn't it selfish for your mother to choose our family over my mother, or for you to choose my life over my father's?"

His voice rose to a shout by the end, and then he just collapsed into silent sobs again. Killian just stared at him, trying to calculate whether or not he would be able to make it out the door without his father catching him if he went while Edward was distracted.

"Killian, I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?" He cried, staring at his son intently through his tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Sure, father," Killian mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

"You've never called me that before," Edward snapped, rage flashing back into his eyes again.

"Papa," Killian corrected with a small wince.

"I need to go for a walk," his father muttered, standing and leaving abruptly.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as soon as his father was out of sight.

The next morning, though, all relief dissipated when he awoke to a sword pressed lightly against his throat.

"Where's your father gone, boy?" The guard grunted.

Killian blinked in confusion. "I'm... not sure."

Another guard entered, panting heavily. "He's not on the ship, sir. We've searched everywhere."

He felt his heart sink and his eyes fill with tears. Surely they'd missed somewhere?

"Where would he have gone? We're in the middle of the ocean," Killian blurted frantically.

The guard with the sword at his throat lowered it with a sigh. "No, lad, you docked this morning."

"You mean...?" Killian trailed off uncertainly, feeling as if he'd just been dropped into some sort of a bad dream.

"He's fled," the guard said. "The man was a fugitive."

"From Lord Alasdair?" Killian finished, heart pounding.

The man looked at him in confusion. "No. Well, partially. He assaulted him, but, before that, he stole a lot of money. He fled the city a few days later with you. Do you have any idea where the money would be now?"

Killian's heart sunk. He knew exactly where it was: with Liam, paying for him to go to school. Before that, maybe paying to rent a room. Before that, who knows?

"No, sir," he replied dully, hugging his knees in a small, desperate attempt at comfort.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma looked at her companion sadly. "Maybe he saw the guards and had to run, but planned on coming back later?"

Killian shook his head. "No. I thought of that as well, but all of his belongings were gone. They were there the night before, which meant that he definitely made a conscious decision to leave without me."

"I'm sorry," Emma said quietly.

Killian shrugged. "At least he died painfully."

Emma just looked at him, shocked.

"Hung, drawn, and quartered just over a year later. I attended the execution, in fact; it seemed like the right thing to do, even though it was rather gruesome. However, I've always taken comfort in the knowledge that my father died long before that man did," he finished bitterly.

* * *

The Past

* * *

It took several months for Killian to work his way back to his hometown on that ship. It was an unpleasant time in which he grieved the loss of his father and brother and was generally treated unkindly.

With one thing and another, Killian found himself standing outside of his uncle's house exactly a year after the death of his mother. It was snowing gently on the house, and he could hear the wailing of an infant from inside. It was small, but it looked warm, and he could smell the scent of something cooking.

He knew that he could've gone to Liam, but the thing that stopped him was the knowledge that Liam would give up his naval dreams in a heartbeat if it meant taking care of his younger brother. Killian couldn't bear the thought of Liam growing to resent him the way his father had. That left only one option.

With a sigh, Killian hefted his worn bag over his shoulder more securely and knocked on the door.

It took a full two minutes for someone to open it. When the door did slam open, it was to reveal a very grumpy Helena holding a screaming infant.

"What the hell do you want?" She snapped.

"Is Uncle Connor there?" Killian asked nervously.

"No. He's passed out in a corner, drunk as usual," Helena said venomously.

"Oh."

She glared at him for a moment, before speaking again. "Well, what do you want? I'm not standing out here all day." She glanced at the still screaming infant. "Oh, shut up."

"I need a place to stay," Killian blurted.

Helena snorted. "If you can't tell, my hands are already full. Do you have a job?"

Killian stared at his feet. One of his shoes had a hole in it now. "No."

His aunt raised her eyebrows. "No? Then what use are you to me?"

She slammed the door before he could even reply.

Killian blinked back tears and sat on the snowy ground. What now? He could try again the next day once Connor was awake. Maybe his uncle would want to take him in. Until then, he really just had to pass the time.

With a sigh, he pulled his violin out of his bag. He hadn't played it since his mother's death, but now he had a strange urge to play it again. He had hauled it all over the world at this point, so he might as well use it. It was something familiar, and it reminded him of happier times before everything went wrong. More importantly, it was an emotional instrument, and he was tired of crying. Maybe the violin could do that for him.

He tuned the instrument quickly and then began to play. The music danced through the air like a memory. He thought of his family, back when he'd really had one, and then he painted the picture with notes. He was unaware of several spectators who began to stop and listen on their way home after a long day's work.

It was only when he finished that he became aware of the coins that had been thrown his way and the group of people milling around. He stared at them and the coins, perplexed.

"Another!" Someone requested.

Killian looked at them blankly for a moment, before he started a lively fiddling tune. When he finished that one, he became aware of Helena hovering at his shoulder and staring at the coins at his feet.

"Come to think of it, I could use another hand around the house. God knows that Lyanna is the fussiest baby that was ever born," she told him sharply, grabbing him by the elbow and steering him towards the door. She stayed to gather his coins before giving him a final shove into the living area.

It was smaller than his old house and smelled of babies, but at least it was warm. Just as Helena had said, Connor was passed out on the table. Lyanna was still screaming, but now from her cradle.

"You shut her up, and I'll get you something to eat," Helena ordered irritably, shoving the baby into his unsuspecting arms.

Killian recoiled as she started to squirm.

"Shh," he murmured, bouncing her up and down lightly. She only screamed more loudly.

"Am I doing something wrong?" He asked Helena nervously.

She snorted. "I imagine from the look of you that you're always doing something wrong. But, in this case, no, she's just the most irritable creature you ever laid eyes on."

Killian continued to hush her and rock her. Eventually, he shifted her and began to pat her on the back gently. At least he had a better grip of her that way.

She let out a horrible noise and simultaneously the back of his shirt felt wet.

"Ugh," Killian exclaimed, shifting Lyanna again. She now had spit around her lips as well as tears on her face. In short, she was absolutely disgusting. However, she seemed much calmer now that she'd destroyed his only shirt.

"Little wanton," he muttered, but he felt his heart soften slightly when her eyes started to shut. "Of course, you pretend to be innocent _now_."

He gently placed her in her crib and assessed the damage on his shirt. It was absolutely disgusting.

"Yea, babies apparently tend to do that. Wish someone had told _me_," Helena complained, dropping stew and bread on the table none too gently.

Killian ate gratefully and then washed his shirt. He slept on the floor next to the crib with orders to take care of Lyanna if she woke during the night. Aunt Helena failed to inform him of the likelihood of that (since she was only approximately half a year old). As a result, he only half-slept that night, and the sleep he did get was without a shirt and subsequently full of shivering. At around four in the morning, he wondered if the reason that Lyanna woke so frequently was because she was hungry. Regardless, Helena showed no sign of getting up to feed her.

Connor was the first to wake, and he looked at Killian with confusion.

"What are you doing here?" He growled.

"Aunt Helena said that I could live with you," Killian explained nervously.

His uncle groaned. "Helena!"

She appeared frazzled and as grumpy as the night before. "What?"

"Why is this boy in my house and weaving some idiotic tale about you telling him he could live here?" He said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Because he plays the violin and coins roll into his lap," she said matter-of-factly. "If he doesn't make enough, we can throw him out."

Lyanna started screaming and Connor scowled. "Someone shut up that baby, for the love of God. And make me some tea."

"Killian, deal with the child," Helena ordered loudly over the screaming.

With a sigh, he turned back to his cousin and began rocking her again as Uncle Connor continued to complain about the horrible noise and his headache.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"So... that's Lyanna."

Killian looked at her with a distant smile. "Yes. That was Lyanna."

And Emma was honestly surprised because, for just a moment, she saw an expression that she'd rarely seen on Killian's face, except occasionally when he looked at Emma herself: one of absolute adoration.

* * *

Alright, I just wanted to quickly apologize if this chapter is a bit disjunct or full of mistakes. I'm a little bit sick right now and I'm finding it a little tough to concentrate. As a result, I may not end up posting one tomorrow. I just wanted to apologize in advance. Thanks to everyone who is still reading this! :)


	16. Chapter 16

To begin, I just wanted to apologize for the delay. With midterms, illness, and various busy things, I haven't had as much time to write. I also had an unusually difficult time writing this chapter! Anyway, enough excuses... here it is! As always, thank you everyone who is continuing to read this. :)

* * *

The Past

* * *

The following years living with his aunt and uncle were marked by various vivid memories: aching fingers from playing violin for hours outside in the cold, the sting of his uncle's hand and belt, harsh words from his aunt, but, mostly, the strange feeling that comes from feeling solely responsible for another human being.

Lyanna loved to babble. Aunt Helena would complain about it ceaselessly and yell at Lyanna until her daughter burst into frightened tears. Killian, however, would speak back to her as though her nonsense syllables actually made sense.

"You little _wretch_. How dare you speak to me in that tone! You're a very bad child, Killian," Helena snapped as Killian dodged her swat after mentioning that Lyanna may cry less if she was fed more frequently.

"Babababababa," Lyanna tasted the sound with relish.

"That's right, Lyanna," Killian encouraged with a grin. "Bad!"

"Connor will hear about this and, mark my words, you won't be able to walk for a week," she warned, eyes ablaze.

Killian shrugged. He imagined that his uncle would find a reason to hurt him with or without Helena's unfavourable report. Besides, he imagined that someone needed to take care of Lyanna, since neither of her parents seemed interested in it.

After that particular conversation, he started a new routine. He discovered that if he saved a few coins each day, he could buy some milk for Lyanna to drink. If his uncle was sober enough to notice the slight difference in income, it would often mean a few more bruises, but Killian decided it was worth it when Lyanna did, in fact, cry less.

Lyanna spoke her first and her last word on the same day, when a dripping Killian came inside along with enough rainwater to flood the doorway.

"Killian!" Helena barked, glaring at the puddle rapidly forming at his feet.

"Kill!" Shrieked Lyanna happily, eyes alight.

Both Helena and Killian turned to look at her in shock.

"Kill?" Asked Helena, her face starting to harden into an expression that Killian was beginning to associate with imminent pain.

Connor snorted from his usual corner in the living room. "Kill. Of course my child would say that as her first word."

"She doesn't know what it means!" Helena hissed. "She was trying to say _his _name."

Killian flinched. "At least she's learning to speak. You're a very clever girl, Lyanna," he added.

"Connor!" Helena snapped. "Do something. She should be saying 'mama' or 'papa' or something of the sort. Not 'kill'!"

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Connor asked moodily. "If you weren't such an atrocious mother, perhaps she'd have had a different first word."

Helena turned towards Lyanna with angry tears in her eyes. "I'm her mother. She's supposed to love _me_."

"I think that you might actually need to show her some affection first," suggested Killian pointedly, crossing his arms in an attempt to look more powerful than he felt.

"I think that perhaps she just needs a good spanking," snapped Helena, moving threateningly towards where Lyanna was sitting on the floor.

"No!" Shouted Killian, running to stop her. "She doesn't know any better! She's too young!"

At this, Connor seemed to come to life, jumping to his feet angrily. He shot Killian an extremely dirty look, but what scared him the most was the fact that it wasn't clouded by alcohol or some sort of a mental episode. No, Connor was definitely there, and he saw something in Killian that he didn't like.

"Actually, Helena, the boy is absolutely right," he said softly. "Why hurt the young one when the elder is so clearly to blame?"

Killian wasn't able to play violin for a month after that.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You can't just do that," Emma snapped.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?"

Emma shook her head angrily. "What did he do?"

"Let us just leave it at the damage was sufficient enough to scare Lyanna into a permanent vow of silence," her companion replied expressionlessly.

At that, Emma was too angry to reply for a moment.

"I can certainly move to a less traumatic part of the narrative, or cease recounting it altogether if you-"

"And this was all because of what happened to him when he was a child?" She interrupted.

Killian sighed. "I've assumed so. After all, I was often told that I resembled my mother to a degree, and there was no one that my uncle hated - or loved - more than her."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Your blasted mother broke his last thread of sanity with her death, you know," Helena told him darkly a few weeks later.

"Did she?" Asked Killian dully from his usual 'bed' on the floor of the living room. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe that murder is the choice of the victim."

Helena scowled. "He never stopped talking about her and her beautiful voice, or how much she'd done for him-"

"I thought he blamed her for everything," Killian interrupted in surprise.

His aunt snorted. "He did blame her, but only because he needed someone to blame. I swear, if he could've married _her_, he would've."

Killian rolled his eyes. It had taken very little time for him to uncover the full extent of his aunt's jealousy towards his mother. It was just his luck to look like the one person both his aunt and uncle loathed beyond anyone else. Although, Killian suspected that Helena was beginning to like him to at least a degree if only as a scapegoat. When he'd first moved in, he'd noticed the faint bruises mottling her skin. Now, she had discovered that she could easily redirect her husband's anger to her nephew. Even if she had no affection for him, Killian suspected that she was grateful for his existence, and perhaps that was the closest thing to love that Helena could manage.

It was one thing to begin to understand the feelings Helena had towards him, but Killian couldn't for the life of him understand what there was to dislike about Lyanna. She was napping as they spoke, and Killian thought she resembled a little cherubim with her round cheeks and white-blonde hair. Her eyes were the same blue as his own, but they still retained an openness that he knew his had lost long ago. It scared him, sometimes, to see how trusting she was; she still reached out to her mother and father when they couldn't spare her a glance and were as likely to strike out at her as to look at her.

"What happened to your parents, Helena?" The question popped into his head and out of his mouth before he could even think of reining it back in.

For once, she didn't scowl. Instead, she sat down at the table with a sad, distant look on her face.

"I don't know who my father was. I only knew my mother, and she sold me into prostitution when I was barely older than you."

Killian looked at her in surprise. "Honestly?"

His aunt turned to face him with a thoughtful expression. "Lyanna doesn't have it as badly as you like to think. Just remember that."

"I thought your parents were dead," Killian blurted.

Helena sighed, although there was something steely behind her gaze. "I wish they were, Killian. I really do. If I saw them dying on the side of the road and I had the chance to save them, I wouldn't do it. I would spit on them and then maybe stand and watch as they died."

Killian nodded thoughtfully. He didn't think he'd do that for his father, even though he'd left him. Maybe he would hate himself for his moment of weakness, but he would save him.

"Anyway, that's enough chatter. What do you think Connor will want for dinner? Usually I'd cook us meat tonight, but of course we can't afford it now that you're busy lying around," she said brusquely, as though him being injured was his fault.

When he was able to play again, it was a great relief. He wrote a song for Helena as soon as he was better, although he didn't tell her it was for her. He knew she'd hate it immediately if she knew. As it was, he caught her tapping her foot and swaying more than once as he played it.

After that, Killian also secretly tried to coach Lyanna to say "mama". Of course, Lyanna had decided not to speak, so he eventually had to give up on an audible form of the word. However, he was still determined to teach her how to communicate. Now, he was actually grateful for the hours of his earlier childhood spent hiding from soldiers. He still remembered most of the sign language he and the family he had created, and suddenly it seemed like the perfect solution.

"This is the sign for 'baby'," he murmured, making a rocking motion with his arms.

Lyanna mimicked it with her clumsy, chubby toddler arms and Killian grinned.

"And this is the sign for 'mama'." He made the motion. Lyanna looked confused at the word.

"You know, Mama," he nodded his head toward Helena, who was busy aggressively chopping vegetables.

Lyanna copied it finally, looking slightly less confused. Killian couldn't help suspecting that the word was fairly meaningless to her, though. Yes, Lyanna understood that it applied to Helena, but he didn't think she understood the concept of motherhood. When Killian had made up the sign, it had been with memories of love, music, and nurturing. It had been with thoughts of warm hugs, faded aprons, and even Christine's favourite black boots that she'd worn for as long as Killian could remember. To Lyanna, the word "mother" had none of those connotations, and how could it? Still, he liked to dream that one day that would change.

When Lyanna had finally mastered the sign, Killian called Helena over.

"What?" She said wearily.

"Look!" Killian nodded to Lyanna. "Can you show me the sign for 'mama'?"

Lyanna smiled a huge, toothy smile with her few, sparse, newly-grown teeth and made the gesture. Helena looked confused.

"What the bloody hell is that?" She said harshly, crossing her arms with a scowl.

"She's calling you 'mama' with hand gestures," Killian explained proudly.

Helena looked taken aback. "Oh." Then she did something very rare; she smiled her pained smile. Then she patted Lyanna awkwardly on the head and moved back to her chores. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Just to clarify, I think that I had trouble understanding that not everyone was meant to be a mother, simply because my own mother was so exceptional. I wasn't quite as idiotic as I sound, but rather quite naive," Killian interrupted himself to explain.

"So she never loved Lyanna?" Asked Emma, feeling strangely disappointed. It wasn't as though she knew that little girl, for goodness sake. However, at the same time, she could understand always yearning for the love of a parent, even if she'd never had one to reject her when she was a child. Still, wouldn't it have been worse to have a parent and be that much closer to love, only to be rejected?

At her question, Killian's expression twisted from one of derision to thoughtfulness. "Oh, I suspect that she always loved Lyanna in her own strange way. However, whether or not she ever became a good mother... that is a question that is somewhat harder to answer."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Several more years passed, and Lyanna grew some more. Killian was the one who taught her to walk, to begin to read, and enough signs to communicate fairly effectively. He did his best to keep her from the wrath of her father, although he couldn't always. Nevertheless, when he came home to a little girl covered in bruises or cuts, he was always the one to kiss them better.

At night, he sometimes played her to sleep with his violin. When he didn't, he would sing her soft lullabies or tell wild, whispered stories of adventure or real stories of his old family.

"Mama would have loved you," he promised her. "She only had sons, you understand, and I imagine that she'd've loved having a little girl around, if only because it would be different. She wouldn't make you dress up in those awful dresses and ribbons or anything, but she could teach you how to fight with a knife in a dress and a corset. I don't really understand how that was even possible, but if anyone could teach you, it would be her."

Lyanna looked excited at the prospect. "Will you teach me?" She mouthed as she signed the words in her small hands.

"Maybe when you're older, but I don't know if you really need to learn while you have me. I can just stab anyone who bothers you, hmm?" He offered with a smirk.

Lyanna considered the prospect as seriously as a little girl could and then nodded.

On Lyanna's fifth birthday, Killian took her to the marketplace. He technically didn't have the permission of his aunt and uncle, but Connor was drunk and Helena was still lying in bed, so Killian figured that it was fine.

He hoisted her up on his shoulders so that she wouldn't get pushed around in the crowd of people and maneuvered the pair of them to one of the busiest parts of the market. Once there among the stalls with numerous and varied goods, he put her down and played his violin long enough to earn enough money to buy something.

"What do you want for your birthday, Lyanna?" Killian questioned with a grin.

Lyanna looked at him in shock, as though she'd misheard him.

"I'm buying you a present," he clarified.

He imagined that the market must have been overwhelming for the little girl with all of its sights and smells. Even now that he was almost thirteen, he was still enchanted by the marketplace and its exotic wares.

Lyanna grabbed his hand and started to pull him around to various stalls with her childlike exuberance. Killian knew the moment she had found what she wanted without her even having to point or tell him, simply because her eyes widened and her whole face fell slack with wonder. He followed her gaze to a stall of toys, where a small fabric doll sat daintily in a patchwork dress and apron.

"That one?" He inquired, pointing to the doll.

Lyanna nodded eagerly, gripping his hand more tightly. She only let go once he'd bought the doll and placed it into her arms. She hugged it to her tightly and lovingly, crushing the soft doll against her chest and her cheek.

"I love her," she mouthed with a wide smile.

"Good," Killian replied.

They bought a pastry to split on the way home, and Lyanna held tightly to her doll the entire time, carefully wiping sticky fingers on her own dress rather than her doll. Killian had brought her small things before, but he knew that she'd never had a real toy before. The sight of her with her doll brought him a great feeling of satisfaction, regardless of what he could guess would come later that evening.

Of course, he was correct. He gently ushered Lyanna into the corner when they arrived home and instructed her to hide the doll. Connor had been known to destroy things when he was angry, and how would he be able to resist the new doll that clearly meant so much to his daughter?

Killian dropped the few coins left over from the day onto the table without remorse as his aunt and uncle watched, stoney faced.

"That's it?" Connor asked, his voice the usual quiet mutter it was when he was seconds away from boiling point.

"Yes, sir," Killian shrugged.

"Where is the rest?" Helena demanded icily. "Are you stealing it from us so that you can run away? Because, trust me, we will know, we will find you, and you will regret it."

"It was Lyanna's birthday," he explained levelly, staring down his aunt. She had the decency to look slightly ashamed, her eyes flickering momentarily to her daughter who was sitting tensely across the room.

"People are born every day. It's hardly worth celebrating; it's just another year of misery," Connor mused. "And do you know what makes it more miserable? Not having enough money to live on." He accentuated each word of the last sentence with a slap to Killian's face.

"Alright," Killian said. "I'll get more tomorrow."

"You'd better," Helena snapped, before disappearing into her bedroom.

In the end, it was a funny twist of fate that Killian was beaten so badly that night. If he hadn't bought Lyanna a birthday present or taken her out, he never would have been beaten. However, he'd decided weeks in advance that it would be worth it to make her happy. It was his love for her that made the pain worthwhile, and it was the pain that caused him to lie awake with his jaw clenched into the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning.

Oddly enough, it was also love for Lyanna that made his insomnia so important that night. If he hadn't been awake, Helena wouldn't have survived the night.

Her door creaked open so softly that Killian almost didn't hear it. He did, though, and he turned his head gently to watch as his aunt's shadowy silhouette moved briskly to the front door and threw it open to run outside into a pool of moonlight.

Killian deeply considered just ignoring whatever weird thing his aunt may be doing, but something about the whole situation made him uneasy. Helena slept more than anyone he'd ever met. He imagined that she would spend the whole day in bed if she could, so why was she rushing out in her nightdress in the middle of the night?

With a groan, Killian painfully pulled himself to his feet and followed after her. He got outside just in time to see his Aunt disappear around the corner at a dead sprint. Even more confused, Killian sprinted after her. As he followed her, it became more and more clear to him that she was heading towards the ocean, and not even the busy parts where the ships docked.

It was only when she reached a secluded section of harbour that she stopped running, hesitating only for a moment before beginning to wade into the water. He reached the edge of the water just as she reached about neck level, but she didn't stop.

"What the hell are you doing?" Asked Killian, his heart pounding.

His aunt didn't even look at him. She just continued wading in until the water was over her head.

Swearing under his breath, Killian ran into the water after her. He was fairly certain that she wasn't going in for a midnight swim, but he, at least, had learned how to move through the water without drowning. It took a terrifying amount of time for him to find his aunt, and, when he did, she struggled against him at first. Finally, though, she began to weaken and Killian was able to pull her back to shore where she collapsed coughing. The second she had expelled all water from her lungs, she began to sob.

"You little bastard," she screamed. She hit him angrily, but then seemed to decide it wasn't worth it and buried her face in her hands to continue to cry.

Killian just stared at her for a moment. She looked almost childlike with her damp hair clinging to her face, for once out of whatever messy bun she had attempted to restrain it in. She looked small and wet and pathetic, and Killian almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Do you mind telling me why you just tried to drown yourself?" He asked, surprising himself with how steady his voice was.

Helena glared daggers at him. "I don't owe you an explanation. In fact, I would say that you owe me-"

"For saving your life?" Killian interrupted angrily.

"In case it wasn't clear to you, I didn't want you to!" She snarled, collapsing into sobs once again.

"You may not owe me an explanation for my sake, but you certainly do for Lyanna's," Killian began to reason, although his temper was already dangerously compromised by pain and exhaustion.

"Lyanna is the reason that I was doing it!" Helena shrieked, her eyes popping in her anger. "Don't you understand? There's no point to my existence. I'm a terrible mother and I'm miserable; it's not as though she needs me when she has _you_! I can't even protect the bloody stupid child or remember her damned birthday!"

Killian stared at her, feeling slightly sick. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? She needs her mother, especially with Uncle Connor around-"

"Apparently I'm incapable of providing for her needs, and, in any case, she has _you_!" Hissed Helena, jabbing a finger violently into her nephew's chest.

"I didn't give birth to her. _You_ did, and she's your responsibility. She didn't ask to be conceived. One day, you're going to have to realize that you're an adult and you need to be her mother," Killian shouted. "Do you have any idea how selfish and irresponsible this is?"

"There were no more options," Helena sobbed. "And it was my choice. How dare you take that away from me!"

"She would love you if you gave her even the slightest hint that you were willing to try to be her mother. It's time for you to grow up!"

"I've been grown up since I was a child," Helena retorted angrily. "Perhaps that's why I'm so incapable of nurturing anyone. Has that ever occurred to you?"

"The only thing that has occurred to me is that there is a little girl who relies on you and dreams of nothing but your approval and love," Killian said.

By that point, Helena grew too upset to even speak. Killian felt some of his anger melt away at the sight, and awkwardly patted her back in an attempt at comfort. To his surprise, she leaned into his shoulder and continued to sob, holding onto her nephew for dear life.

When some of her sobs had subsided into hiccups, Killian helped her to her feet.

"Shall we go home?" He asked.

Helena nodded, wiping her face clean of emotion once again, and joined her limping nephew in his walk back to the small house hidden among the shadows of the city.


	17. Chapter 17

Let me just start this with a brief apology... sorry that this took so long! I had a busy midterm week and a few extra things that threw me for a loop. Anyway, I'll try to update more frequently now.

I hope everyone enjoyed the start of the second half of the season as much as I did! :)

* * *

The Past

* * *

The war started without any warning.

Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true; to Killian, it had always felt as though his world was standing on a knife point. It would take very little to upset the balance once again, but the constant weight of some unnamed threat made it feel as though the threat would never occur and his world would be stuck in some strange, uncomfortable stasis forever.

Oddly enough, the threat was not one that Killian would have expected. From the various snatches of discussion he caught, it seemed likely that there would be a civil war, a revolutionary war, or a war with their Northern neighbours. In the end, the threat came from the Eastern king, who had grown greedy and wanted to take his chance at conquering the kingdom to the west.

Adults were recruited first, but soon the whispers started; the king wanted children.

"Nonsense," Helena muttered derisively as a neighbour stopped by to gossip.

"It's the truth, on my life. Children are small enough to spy or sneak into enemy camps on sabotage missions. They're also expendable because we can always have more of them - God knows there's enough of them on the streets - and, perhaps if the soldiers are soft-hearted, it will reduce the casualties," added the old woman at the door gravely. She showed up frequently for the sole purpose of gossiping; Helena often complained that they had no need of a town crier with her around.

Helena shrugged. "Well, I suppose that would be rather clever of the king, then, if it were actually true." She said the last part with her usual disdain.

The woman glanced around nervously, as though waiting for someone to jump out and arrest her. "If I were you, I might hide any children old enough to be of use," she nodded pointedly at Killian, who was currently scrubbing the floor a few meters away but still pretending not to listen.

His aunt snorted. "Over a foolish rumour?"

Connor spoke up then from his usual chair. "Would we be paid for any child we provide?"

"I believe so," the woman replied. "It's work, no matter who does it."

"Then I don't see any problem," Connor grunted.

And that was the end of any discussion around any preventative measures. While Killian occasionally caught Helena looking at him thoughtfully, he saw no other sign that the issue was on anyone's mind.

When he was actually ordered to join the king's army, Killian didn't mind very much. In fact, part of him was quite happy because he imagined that he'd probably be beaten less in the army than he would be at home. He wouldn't have to deal with his mad uncle or his confusing aunt. However, his one concern was Lyanna; the thought of leaving twisted his gut unpleasantly with guilt, but, in the end, what choice did he have?

"I'll write you as often as I can. You have to swear to continue practicing your letters," Killian told her sternly that night.

She'd been crying ever since the soldiers came and clung to her cousin like a burr. Currently, she had her arms wrapped around his middle and her head buried in his stomach so that all he could see was a mass of blonde hair. Helena was knitting quietly by the fire, and Connor... well, he was wherever he went at this time of night, perhaps to run his theatre or to nurse a bottle.

Lyanna shook her head. "Promise to come back?" She mouthed, eyes teary.

"Of course. I'll always come back for you," Killian promised, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

When he left the next morning after carefully extracting himself from a sleeping Lyanna, Helena was the only one awake. She was staring moodily into a cup of tea and looked so tired that Killian wondered if she'd slept at all.

"Swear that you'll take care of Lyanna?" Killian requested quietly.

Helena shook her head, her face tight as though she were eating something sour. "You have no right to say that to me. I'm her mother, not you."

Killian just raised an eyebrow.

"I'll ensure that she makes it through your absence in one piece," Helena conceded finally, still staring into her cracked teacup.

Killian knew that this was the best promise that she would give him, and so he only nodded. As he left, he realized that Helena actually seemed upset to see him go. He suspected that it was only because she would receive the brunt of her husband's anger for the time that he was away. Then again, she'd become even more confusing since her suicide attempt, so it was hard to tell. Killian was secretly terrified that Helena herself would be the one to not make it through his absence in one piece, but surely, if her suicide attempt had been in Lyanna's best interests according to whatever twisted logic she followed, that meant that she would stay alive. There was perhaps nothing that Killian feared as much as Lyanna being alone with Connor.

The war lasted just under a year, with the result being a reluctant stalemate between the two sides.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Seriously? Killian, you can't just skip all of the details," Emma said in exasperation.

Her companion shrugged. "Certainly, I can. There's not much to say about the war. I did what I was ordered, made friends, lost them to our foe, got several minor injuries, but survived, obviously. The rest is just unpleasant details of strategy and wasted lives ended prematurely." He closed his eyes at that, as if hoping that by looking like he was napping he could get out of further explanations.

Emma frowned. "All of your friends died?"

"All but three," Killian acknowledged with a crooked smile, eyes still closed.

"And? Who were they?"

"One I never saw again, but learned that he passed short years later due to illness."

"And the other two?" Emma prompted.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Screams cut through the air as sharply as the sword Killian attempted to swing. The battle could have lasted for minutes, hours, or days, and Killian wouldn't have known; it seemed that his mind had shut out everything unrelated to the small area around him. In the back of his mind, he processed the screams, the cries, the clashing of metal, the tangy scent of blood, and the sweat running down his face, but most of his energy was focused on keeping anything sharp from piercing his skin. He'd never anticipated just how heavy a sword was, but he was almost numb to it now that he'd survived multiple battles, even if some of them had been only by the skin of his teeth. His body had fallen into a thoughtless rhythm of deflecting and jabbing.

The hardest part of anything, though, was getting his sword out again if he managed to stick it into someone.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian smirked at Emma's alarmed expression. "You asked for details, Swan."

* * *

The Past

* * *

In this particular battle, that issue left him suddenly and sadly sword-less.

Killian swore under his breath as a man rushed at him. Of all times for his weapon to get _stuck!_

At the last moment, his enemy's sword was deflected by another, and an extra hand helped him to pull out his trapped sword.

"Thank you," Killian said sincerely, glancing at the stranger. He had little time for anything else before his concentration was pulled away once more by another attacker.

After the battle ended, Killian went in search of the stranger. After wandering past several campfires and tents, he finally found him in a tent set up for quick medical work, although little could truly be done for most injuries. Fortunately, this stranger only needed a few stitches to his arm.

Killian observed him for a moment. The boy was a few years older than he was, with light brown messy hair and brown eyes. He had a friendly face with smile lines etched into it, even if it was currently contorted with discomfort, and was compactly but sturdily built. Eventually, the boy seemed to sense Killian's eyes on him and glanced over. After a moment, recognition passed over his face.

"I came to thank you-" Killian began once he realized that the boy had seen him.

The boy smiled faintly. "That's not necessary. Anyone would have done the same if given the opportunity."

Killian nodded but privately disagreed. His mother would have, and he imagined that Liam would have as well. Perhaps Sari and Gavin would have. No one else came to mind.

"I'm Owen Mallory," the boy introduced himself.

"Killian Jones," he replied, offering his hand.

The boy shook it firmly. "I'd say we won this one," he said cheerfully.

"Did we?" Killian remarked with disinterest.

"Well, we aren't dead, are we?" Owen pointed out.

"That doesn't prove anything," Killian said with a shrug.

"It proves everything," Owen retorted.

Killian raised an eyebrow but didn't reply. Finally, he thanked the boy again and left.

Two nights later, he was sitting by the fire with paper and pencil when he met Owen again.

"What's that?"

Killian turned in surprise to see Owen hovering over his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

Owen squinted at the paper in confusion. "Those aren't letters, are they?"

"I'm composing," Killian said shortly, turning back to his page.

"Composing?" Echoed Owen in confusion.

Killian sighed. "Writing music."

"But you don't have an instrument," Owen commented, sitting next to Killian without invitation.

"I don't need one. I hear it in my head," Killian explained briskly, hoping to be left alone again.

"That's amazing," Owen said in awe, looking at the paper more closely as though physical contact would allow him to hear it.

Killian looked up to the stars in despair, knowing that the likelihood of composing further that night was decreasing by the minute.

"Does it have a title?" Asked Owen curiously.

"There," Killian muttered, pointing at the neatly written words.

Owen looked at the letters in confusion.

"You're illiterate," Killian observed.

Pink crept into Owen's cheeks. "Well, I'm from a farm, you see, and neither of my parents know how nor saw much point in learning. You don't need letters to grow crops."

Killian couldn't imagine being unable to read. Suddenly, he was immensely grateful that his parents had been so strict about their children educating themselves. Still, perhaps there was something to be said about being an uneducated farm boy if it meant that his parents were still alive.

"What does it sound like?" Owen asked curiously.

Killian hummed quietly under his breath and Owen listened raptly, his mouth slightly open.

"And you just made that up?" He demanded, his eyes wide.

"Yes," Killian said shortly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. "But it's not very difficult."

"If you say so," Owen muttered skeptically.

Killian turned back to continue writing, now with the heat of Owen's gaze on the page, following each scratch of the pencil.

"What does the title say?" Owen interrupted after only a few bars.

"The Last Night."

Owen considered for a minute. "That's a little depressing, isn't it?"

Killian closed his eyes for a moment in irritation. "Perhaps."

His companion lay on his back and stared up at the sky. "How about 'The Last Star'? Stars seem more cheerful."

"I don't want something cheerful," Killian replied with a frown.

"I do," Owen admitted softly, staring at the sky. Although he was older than Killian, the admission made him seem almost childlike. For a moment, Killian could almost picture Lyanna laying there instead, begging him for a lullaby about whatever little girls liked to be sung to about. Sometimes she wanted lullabies about knife fights, sometimes she wanted lullabies about princesses, but she always had that same breakable look that Owen was wearing.

With a slight huff of defeat, Killian turned to another page. "A song about stars?"

"You'll take suggestions?" Owen sat up so quickly that Killian was surprised he didn't become dizzy and fall back down again.

"Yes, yes, fine," Killian muttered.

Owen took a deep breath before reciting solemnly:

"The fountains mingle with the River

And the Rivers with the Ocean,

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle.

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?"

Killian stared.

"I'm quite a fan of verse," Owen admitted. "I like to go to the city to hear recitations."

"Well... um... alright, I can compose something for that," Killian agreed, scratching behind his ear awkwardly.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"So you've done that since you were a kid," Emma observed.

Her present-day Killian right hand moved to its usual spot in embarrassment, but Killian caught it and pretended to brush something off of his shoulder. "Um, aye. It's a childhood habit that I'm afraid no one had the foresight to correct."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian taught Owen his tune once he had perfected it, and Owen soon hummed it idly throughout most of the day. After several days of hearing it everywhere, Killian demanded that Owen give him more words, just so that he could get that damned tune out of his head. The two soon fell into a rhythm of writing, and Killian only feared that his friend the poetry book would end up bleeding out on the battlefield and Killian would be without a challenge once again.

He was busy composing one night with Owen by his side when his second surviving friend appeared.

"Killian?!"

Killian turned his head to see a girl around his age with dark skin and expressive dark eyes.

"Ciarra?" He said in amazement, staring at his childhood friend.

"Oh my God!" Ciarra gasped, throwing her arms around him. "I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet," Killian replied with a grin. "And neither are you, it seems."

Ciarra laughed. "No. It's a bit of a long story, I'm afraid."

Killian quickly introduced his friends, and then Ciarra settled down closely beside Killian, so that their shoulders were touching, to tell her tale.

"Mama made me hide under the bed when the soldiers came. After they died, I went to your house, but I saw that there were soldiers there too so I assumed the worst. Then I didn't really know what to do, until I had a sort of horrible idea," Ciarra trailed off looking slightly guilty.

"Yes?" Prompted Owen, leaning forward in interest.

"Well, my mother was married once before to some sort of a drunken jailer from what I understand. I went to the old prison and found him. It was easy enough to convince him that I was his-"

"Easy? You'd have to be twice your age!" Killian exclaimed.

"I believe that mathematics may not be his strong point," Ciarra suggested delicately. "I added on a few years to my age and I think he was too drunk to remember exactly how long it had been since Mama left him. Then, the next morning, he woke up and didn't remember the details too well, so I just sort of ended up staying."

Owen had collapsed laughing, while Killian just sat looking impressed.

"It helped that he was too drunk to even remember the year," Ciarra added in an attempt at modesty.

"Is he kind to you at least?" Killian questioned.

Ciarra shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "He's not all that bad. And you?"

"I'm living with Uncle Connor," Killian admitted.

Ciarra was aghast. "Uncle Connor? Him?!"

Killian sighed and quickly caught her up on the finer details of why he'd been forced into living with their notoriously mad and violent uncle. Ciarra gave him a tight hug afterwards.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "Do you remember how much fun we used to have?"

Killian nodded with a smile. "Yes. We were pretty lucky for a time."

Owen threw his arms around the pair of them. "Well, now we're here together, so I'd say we're all pretty lucky."

* * *

The Present

* * *

"He sounds like Mary Margaret," Emma commented drily.

Killian chuckled. "He did have quite an optimistic outlook on life, but the similarities end there, I assure you."

* * *

The Past

* * *

In the end, Owen brought many of the teenagers in camp under his wing. Soon, many of them developed a camaraderie that Killian had never experienced before, except perhaps within his family or briefly with Milah and Liam. The group would exchange stories and fears, or sing Killian's songs by the campfire. At times, Killian could almost forget that a war was occurring and that any of them could die. Of course, most of them did. Faces came and went, but Ciarra and Owen somehow managed to stay by Killian's side.

When the war finished, Killian almost felt some regret. However, the knowledge that his friends would likely survive now that the war was over helped to repress most of it, as did the weight of new losses Killian had to carry.

"Good luck, Owen," Killian said when it came time to say goodbye.

Owen pulled him into a hug. "You too. Farewell for now, my friend."

It was easier to say goodbye to Ciarra.

"Promise you'll come meet Lyanna," Killian said to her as they went their separate ways in the city.

"Of course." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then ran off.

Killian arrived at his uncle's home almost a year older, slightly sadder, and with far more combat skills. However, the house he remembered had barely changed at all. A faint trail of smoke still wafted from the chimney and his aunt and uncle's voices still echoed angrily out the door.

With a sigh, Killian walked in only to be greeted by silence. He only had time to see his aunt's stunned face and his uncle's irritated one before a small form with blonde hair threw herself at him. Killian pulled Lyanna into his arms and stroked her hair as she cried quiet tears of relief.

"Good afternoon," Killian said awkwardly to his silent aunt and uncle.

"Good lord, your voice has changed," Helena muttered. "How long have you been away?!"

"Long enough," Connor interrupted irritably. "The bloody army didn't pay us nearly enough for you. You must have been slacking."

"Yes, sir," Killian replied automatically.

"At least you've learned some manners," Connor added with a snort of disgust, turning back to his ale.

Lyanna pulled him over to their usual corner of blankets and pillows, since neither their aunt nor their uncle had yet bothered to buy them beds. She pulled out her doll and hugged it tightly.

"Ah, Emily kept you safe, I see," Killian murmured, gesturing at the doll.

Lyanna nodded, before grabbing his hand and dragging him to his violin. With a wary glance at his aunt and uncle, Killian picked it up and played a soft waltz for Lyanna, which she danced to with Emily in the corner. Helena watched from across the room with a small smile that quickly turned into a scowl when she noticed Killian watching her.

"Enough noise," barked Connor, shooting a venomous look at his nephew.

However, in spite of everything, Killian managed to keep from receiving a beating that night, and once Helena and Connor went to sleep, Killian finally got to catch up with Lyanna properly.

With a teasing smile, he pulled out the letter he had written her several months before for her birthday. Her face lit up in excitement as he passed it back to her and softly sang the song he had written for her. She buried her head in his lap and fell asleep soon afterwards, but Killian stayed awake for most of the night, too happy to be back with Lyanna to find any rest. She was alive, and that was all that mattered for the moment.

* * *

*This one belongs to Shelley.


	18. Chapter 18

I apologize (again) for the wait! I'll try to be better this week. :)

* * *

The Past

* * *

Connor had hit Lyanna.

It took only a few days for Killian to figure it out. The signs were subtle, but they were there nonetheless. He saw it in the way she flinched when Connor entered the room, or the way she stared at the ground and shrunk against the wall if her father's eyes darted in her direction, or the way her hand would fly reflexively to her face when there was a loud noise.

The discovery filled him with a simmering rage that he had rarely felt before.

"You promised to keep her safe," he hissed to Helena one evening when Connor was out and Lyanna was already asleep.

Helena looked at him levelly. "I said I'd keep her in one piece. There's only so much one can do against a madman."

Killian rolled his eyes in disgust and turned away.

After that, for the first time, he started planning his escape from his aunt and uncle. He could do it, he was certain. If he was patient and just put aside a few coins each day for himself after busking, then he could surely get away within the year and support himself and Lyanna. It would be difficult, certainly, but surely difficulty was better than the constant threat of his uncle's fist.

He began to play his violin for longer and longer each day to get as many coins as possible. It was because of his longer hours that he met Milah again.

Halfway through a piece, he glanced up at his audience to see a familiar pair of sharp grey eyes watching him. In fact, she looked familiar in many ways; her dark curls were still long and unkempt, her cheekbones were still sharp, her hands still graceful, her posture still tall and defiant... and yet, there were differences too. For one thing, she had breasts; a teenaged boy noticed such things. For another, when their eyes met, there was a look of notable relief on her face that a younger Milah would never have shown.

Killian put down his bow at the end of the phrase, despite the song being unfinished, and moved over to her.

"Milah? What are you doing here?" He asked in amazement.

"You play the violin," she observed, ignoring his question to stare at the old instrument in his hand. "I wondered why you bothered to drag it around with you when you never played. It's a pity, really; you might have kept us law-abiding citizens."

Killian raised an eyebrow. "And missed all of our fun?"

Tilting her head to the side in consideration, Milah finally shrugged. "Fair enough."

"So, what brings you here?" Killian tried again.

"May I hold it?" Milah asked, reaching out for the instrument.

"No," he replied. "Not until you answer my question."

Milah rolled her eyes and pouted, which was strangely attractive. "I ran away, of course."

She reached for the instrument, but Killian yanked it out of the way. "Why?"

"Because my uncle wants me to marry this horrible old spinster man," Milah complained with a shudder. "Scared of his own shadow, I swear, and twice my age at least."

"And you came here because...?"

"Well, for one thing, it's easy to hide in a city, and, for another..." Milah trailed off, looking strangely uncomfortable.

"Yes?" Killian prompted.

"I hoped that you and your family might still be here and that you might be able to help me hide," Milah confessed. "While living on the streets again doesn't particularly frighten me, I do have some concerns about what may happen to someone of my gender and age."

Killian sighed, rubbing his eye tiredly.

"If it's too much trouble..." Milah trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"No, not at all. I was just trying to think of where you could go," Killian muttered. "Oof!"

Milah had thrown her arms around him in a tight hug. "Thank you."

Killian ended up taking her to his uncle's theatre. While it was often busy, there were some storage rooms where one could hide quite easily. Milah made herself quite comfortable there with little prompting.

The first night that she spent in the theatre had Killian awake most of the night. What would happen if Connor discovered her? Or what if the door was locked the next day and Milah starved?

The next day, Killian got up after only brief snatches of sleep to bring his friend food. Early morning sun was just beginning to inch along the cobblestones of the street when Killian reached the theatre. It smelled strongly of alcohol and vomit, but Killian simply wrinkled his nose and pressed onwards, sliding through the back door as quietly as he could. Several downward flights of stairs later, Killian reached Milah's storage room.

She was where he had left her, curled up in a pile of old costumes like a small animal in its den. In the dim light from his candle, Killian could just barely see her face. It looked much softer as she slept; awake, she always appeared to be bracing herself against the evils of the world. Now, she looked as innocent as Lyanna.

After a moment of observation, Killian dropped some food by her still form and turned to leave.

"You never let me hold the violin," Milah's voice cut in sleepily. "Do you have it with you now?"

Killian jumped slightly and turned to face his friend. She blinked up at him lazily, as though she were still too tired to throw in her usual casual aggression.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Killian whispered.

"Answer the bloody question," she muttered, burying her face further into the clothes until Killian could only see a tangle of curls.

"Why do you want to hold it?" Killian replied, perplexed.

Milah yawned and stretched, looking for all the world like an oversized barn cat.

"Because it's beautiful. I love the shape, and the wood looks so smooth. It's most beautiful when it's played, of course, but can't you just look at it and hear music? I want to see what it is about something so small that can create something so gorgeous. Holding it would be like holding living and breathing art in your hands," Milah said dreamily.

Killian raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "If you say so."

"You think I'm mad," Milah sighed.

"Not necessarily. You could just be drunk," Killian corrected with a smirk.

Milah's face fell into a pout.

"I'll bring you some dinner later, alright?" Killian promised.

He couldn't keep from grinning as he left. He'd forgotten how... different, Milah was.

That night, he came back to find Milah still on the same pile of clothes. The only difference was that now she was sitting cross-legged with a pencil in hand and a pile of crumpled papers on her lap. Her hair obscured most of what had captured her attention, but what he could see of her face revealed an expression of intense concentration.

"What are you doing?" He asked quietly to avoid frightening her.

It turned out that such manners were wasted; Milah didn't even look up.

"Drawing," she said absently.

Killian moved to look over her shoulder.

"That's amazing," he breathed.

Her drawing was of his violin, looking so life-like that Killian almost believed that he would be able to pick it up off of the page and play it.

"It would have been better if you'd let me hold it," Milah muttered.

"I didn't know that you you could draw," Killian commented, sitting beside her and passing her food.

Milah accepted it gratefully after absently wiping blackened fingers on her skirt. "Well, I didn't exactly have anything with which to draw when we were last together."

"You've always done it, then?"

His companion nodded distantly. "Oh, yes. I've wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember. I feel almost as though I see things differently. Maybe it's only because I'm looking, but I swear that I see hundreds of colours and shadows where others would only see dozens. And where other people just see one scene, I see a million possible scenes based on the way the light could touch it. Light is so beautiful, isn't it? It changes absolutely everything. It can make the most dreary thing gorgeous, or the opposite, I suppose. I just see all of these amazing images and I just want to capture them forever so that people can see them the way I do."

Milah paused to glance up at Killian with some trepidation. Perhaps it was fear of judgment, or perhaps simply fear that came from disclosing something so personal. However, where the words might have sounded crazy coming from anyone else's mouth, they sounded natural coming from Milah's. Her grey eyes lit with a subtle passion that reminded Killian of the simmering energy of a thunderstorm.

"I think I understand," Killian finally replied. "It's a bit like music, only music lets you capture a moment only briefly before letting it go again. Still, the magnification of whatever the moment holds is the same."

Nodding appreciatively, Milah turned back to her sketch. "Do you want to be a musician, then?"

"No," Killian admitted. "Well... I'm unsure. You see, my mother did that, and she was brilliant. I would hate to just copy her and be some sort of a pale imitation. No, I don't think I'd want to perform for a living. It's far too personal. I do love composing, though. I wouldn't mind being a composer."

"Well, they're more or less the same," Milah argued.

"No, they're not. When you compose you leave the subject on the paper. When you perform, you have to live it. My mother was wonderful at living a million different lives as honestly as she lived her own, and that can be wonderful at times, but doing it all of the time? That would be wretched. No, I'd rather leave whatever I'm writing on a page, where I can just put it away and forget about it."

"I suppose," Milah acknowledged thoughtfully. "I've never really thought of that before."

The two teenagers descended into companionable silence, with only the soft sound of charcoal on paper in the background.

"Would you write me a song?" Asked Milah suddenly.

Killian looked at her in surprise. "About what?"

"Me, of course," Milah retorted. "We can do an artistic exchange."

"Sounds fascinating," Killian drawled sarcastically.

"I mean it! Our art is a tiny peek into our minds, and I'm curious to see how you see me. Besides, I need something to work on while I sit down here." She looked up from her paper pleadingly.

Killian considered her for a moment in amusement. "Alright, fine."

For the next two weeks, when Killian brought Milah meals, both would sit quietly and work on their own art. Milah insisted that neither of them see the other's work until it was finished, which meant that they sat back-to-back. The time would fly by, though, simply because their work would often be forgotten in favour of conversation. Images of their lives over the past years sprang up in the darkened storage room, and some of them even within Milah's pages of work.

"Would I be able to meet Lyanna?" Milah requested one evening after another of Killian's anecdotes about his cousin. "She sounds like a darling."

Killian considered the matter carefully - Lyanna rarely left the house - but finally agreed.

The next morning, Killian carried his cousin on his back to Milah's hiding spot. The closer they got to the storage room, the tighter Lyanna's grip grew around his neck.

"Oi, Lyanna! I can't breathe," protested Killian.

"I'm not so frightening, I promise," called Milah softly from down the hall.

Lyanna's grip tightened further, and Killian gave up all hope of breathing. When he finally placed his cousin on the ground, it was with great relief.

Killian had warned Milah that the little girl didn't speak, but nothing could have fully prepared her for Lyanna's timidity. Lyanna had agreed excitedly to meet Killian's friend, but, upon seeing her, she promptly hid herself behind Killian's legs. Milah shot Killian a look of horror, clearly thinking she'd done something wrong.

"Good evening," Milah said awkwardly.

When she received no response, she turned back to her sketching. Several minutes passed, in which Lyanna grew increasingly curious. Eventually, she prodded Killian forward so that she could see what Milah was doing, using her cousin like a human shield. Milah only moved once, when Lyanna accidentally touched a spot on Killian's back that was sore from his uncle's latest beating and he let out a quiet cry, but after a small frown of understanding, Milah moved back to her work.

Finally, with a gentle nudge, Killian moved his cousin in front of him.

"I'm not allowed to look," he explained.

Lyanna inched forward further to stare at the page, then at Killian, as though comparing the two images. Her terror began to melt away into wonder.

"Would you like to try?" Milah offered.

Lyanna hesitated and glanced at Killian, who nodded encouragingly.

By the end of an hour, Lyanna was not only used to Milah, she was also fearlessly curled up by her side, sketching with a small smile on her face. Killian resolved at that second to make time to draw with Lyanna instead of just reading to her or helping her with her writing.

"We should go now," Killian said eventually.

Lyanna held up her hand pleadingly.

"Five more minutes?" Killian guessed. "Sorry, love, but I think that if we wait too much longer your mother will miss us."

Lyanna hung her head but started to stand.

"Wait, Killian, I wanted to talk to you," Milah said quickly, moving away from the little girl after squeezing her shoulder lightly.

She pulled him aside and Killian raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I don't want to embarrass you by bringing this up, but I just needed to ask you. Your uncle hurts you a lot, doesn't he?"

Killian immediately felt his face flush in humiliation and looked away.

"I don't need you to bare your soul to me or anything, but have you ever considered leaving? That poor little girl is terrified of her own shadow. I think that's a good reason to leave, if not for yourself."

"I have considered leaving," Killian replied, but trailed off. Unfortunately, much of the money he'd been saving had instead gone towards feeding Milah. That wasn't knowledge that he wanted to burden her with.

"And?" Milah prompted.

"And I'm still considering it," Killian told her from between a tightly clenched jaw.

Milah looked up at her friend sorrowfully. "I really think you should. No one deserves to be kicked around the way you two seem to be. Besides, maybe, if you did leave... we could leave together. We could go on adventures and take care of Lyanna and make beautiful art... it could be so wonderful!"

"It could," agreed Killian hesitantly. Of course, it was easy to dream about running off with his friend and his cousin, perhaps grabbing Ciarra and Liam on the way. It was tempting to imagine them all living together in a small house with a little garden, all working and providing an actual loving environment for Lyanna to grow up in. But, then again, neither of Lyanna's parents would take their departure well. The loss of income from Killian's departure combined with him stealing their daughter, even if their outrage would be from possessiveness rather than love, could be disastrous. Besides, they would need money, and they would need jobs. They might also need to grow up a little bit. It was easy to dream about running, but the logistics of it were less easy to figure out. Besides, Helena was growing increasingly possessive of Lyanna; even getting her outside for an hour had been difficult.

Milah sighed and turned back to Lyanna.

"I have a present for you," Milah told her. "I did it quite quickly, but I hope you like it."

Hesitantly, Lyanna took the page the young woman was offering and stared at it. After a moment, her mouth stretched into a shy grin. Killian quietly moved over to glance at it too: it was the perfect likeness of Lyanna.

His cousin gave Milah a quick hug before retreating to Killian. Milah smiled wistfully as she watched them leave.

That night, Lyanna gave Killian a present as well. He had just closed his eyes to sleep when a small hand poked him hesitantly in the arm. He opened his eyes just in time to have a page fall on his face.

"Is this your drawing?" He asked sleepily, moving to light a candle.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Do you still have it? I didn't see it," Emma broke in.

"It's another of those items that I prefer to have with me," Killian explained, gently reaching into his pocket and extracting a small... bottle.

Emma looked at him disbelievingly.

"Pirate, love. I'd rather not have it get wet."

As he spoke, Killian gently pulled a yellowed, slightly tattered page from the bottle. It was folded neatly, and Killian handled it with the utmost care as he unfolded it to reveal the charcoal sketch.

Emma took his cue and took it from him with a very light touch. She couldn't suppress a laugh when she saw it, though. It was clearly Lyanna's attempt at a self-portrait with her cousin. For some reason, it wasn't what she'd expected. In fact, it looked like any young child's attempt at drawing. It was a strange thing to realize that a small, abused girl who lived hundreds of years ago wasn't so different from children now.

"She really captured you perfectly," Emma commented with a grin. A disproportionate stick figure with messy hair and a clean-shaven face grinned back at her lopsidedly.

"She certainly recognized 'devilishly handsome' when she saw it," Killian agreed.

"Yes. There's nothing more 'devilishly handsome' than a potato-shaped head," Emma teased.

Killian's smile slipped away.

"Oh, come on, I was joking," Emma complained.

"Oh, no, Swan. I was just thinking," Killian replied, putting his smile back on reflexively.

Emma studied him. "Alright. What next?"

* * *

The Past

* * *

"I've finished a masterpiece," Milah announced.

Killian looked up in surprise. They had fallen into a pleasant and familiar routine of working together, and the thought of it ending was strangely disappointing.

"Perhaps I should be the judge of whether it's truly a masterpiece," Killian suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, you shan't get to judge until you finish yours," Milah declared in a sing-song voice.

"Oh, I finished weeks ago," Killian said with a shrug, pulling out some papers from the bottom of his stack.

Milah chuckled at that.

"What?" Killian asked, thrown off guard.

"So did I!" Milah admitted.

A look of understanding passed between them, before Milah shoved a paper towards him. "Shall we trade?'

The sketch left Killian speechless. Of course, he had known that Milah was an extremely competent artist, so he'd known that it would be a high quality piece of art. Nevertheless, it still managed to surprise him. In the sketch, Killian stood playing the violin with a layered, almost dreamlike background of several scenes. He recognized stories that he'd recounted in their shapes, fading in and out of each other as though they were memories just passing by. Perhaps they were. He knew that Milah, of all people, would understand that music could tell stories. Most surprisingly, though, was how she'd drawn him. He looked absolutely lost in his own world, a small smile playing across his lips.

"I realized just now that it was actually ridiculously stupid for me to ask to trade; I can't read music," Milah laughed after a moment. "Of course, your writing is very fine, but I know nothing of the content."

"Milah, I believe you could make a living as an artist. This is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," Killian murmured, still engrossed in the images. His heart felt full at the thought of anyone creating anything something so wonderful and so personal for him. It was the greatest gift he had ever received, except for his violin.

Milah bit her lip and smiled. "I told you it was a masterpiece."

Killian could have stared at the picture for days, but Milah soon lost patience.

"Music! Now," she insisted, plopping his pages of notes unceremoniously on top of her sketch.

"Fine," Killian sighed. "I'm afraid that I wrote it for an instrument in addition to voice, so I'll only be able to give you the melody."

He took a deep breath and started to hum.

"Stop! Where are the words?" Milah interrupted.

"The vocal part is just humming," Killian replied, rolling his eyes.

He began again and Milah listened attentively, eyes sparkling.

"I love it," she announced. "I do believe that may be a masterpiece on its own, even without the instrument. I like the humming quite a lot, actually. It's quite mysterious, isn't it? Or intimate, or something."

Killian blushed slightly at her word choice-

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma snorted.

Killian paused before slowly turning to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't believe that for one second."

"What? That I wrote music that someone valued?" Killian exclaimed in mock-outrage.

"No, that you could ever be that innocent!" Emma clarified, amused.

"Two hundred years is a long time, Swan," Killian smirked. "I would hope that I wasn't the same at fourteen or fifteen."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"I might have to think more about it to give it a better review," Milah finally decided. "I feel like I could hear it over and over again and still find something new."

"That's more to do with your mind than my music," Killian countered.

Milah shrugged, but a small grin spread across her face at the compliment.

"Killian?" She said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

Milah looked at the pages of music again, a small frown creasing her face. "Perhaps it's just my mind layering things onto the music again, but I swear that the song is full of longing as well. I long to see the sun again... I like it down here very much, of course, but do you think... might it be safe... could I go outside for a little bit, do you think? Surely I wouldn't run into my uncle just on a brief walk, would I?"

Killian frowned thoughtfully. "It's up to you. I think the chances are quite slim, though."

"Good."

Milah was dragging him upstairs by the hand before he could say anything else. The second she felt morning sunshine on her face, a radiant smile drifted lazily across her face.

"Come on," Milah said, yanking him towards the market.

It was the market's busiest hour, but Milah seemed thrilled to be around people again rather than bothered by their sheer numbers. After a moment, Milah turned to him with a wicked glint in her eye.

"Perhaps we should steal something, just for old time's sake," she suggested.

Killian wrinkled his forehead. "Why? I have money, and I can earn some more by playing."

"But stealing is fun," Milah countered.

"Not for the people being stolen from," Killian pointed out. Sure, doing something dangerous was thrilling and even satisfying if the merchant seemed like enough of a jerk, but his conscience (which sounded suspiciously like Liam) was firmly against stealing when it wasn't necessary.

Milah pouted, but perked up slightly when she saw a merchant selling jewelry. She slipped off without another word, leaving Killian to look around for a somewhat clear area for him to play his violin.

Of course, he saw something else entirely.

A man was pointing very obviously in Milah's direction, conversing seriously with several men around him.

For a moment, time seemed to still as Killian's stomach dropped. There was Milah, blissfully unaware of the situation as she admired the various wares of the jewelry merchant. Then, there were the men, now moving forward in a determined fashion.

"Milah!" Killian shouted in warning.

The noise of the market was so intense that Milah just barely heard her name. She lifted her head and glanced around. After a moment in which she saw neither Killian nor her uncle and his companions, she turned back to the jewelry with a shrug.

Killian began to shove his way through the crowds towards her, ignoring both angry shouts and the scent of unwashed human bodies. As he ran, all he could think about was how _stupid_ they had been. Of course, if her uncle had tracked her to the city, the market would be the obvious place for him to wait for her to appear. Everyone went to the market at least occasionally, and it was well known that it was a wonderful place for any fugitive to hide in plain sight. However, if the hunter was patient enough and good enough at looking, that plan could backfire very quickly.

"Milah! Run!" Killian yelled again, once he was closer.

This time, Milah heard him. She turned and saw her uncle, and her face drained of all colour. Quickly, she turned and started to sprint away. Killian ran after her, but her uncle and his friends were closer, larger, and faster. There were too many people in his way, and no matter how much he pushed and yelled, the bodies just seemed to multiply. In the end, all he could do was watch as the men closed in around her, grabbed her in spite of her kicking and screaming, and started to pull her away. By the time he'd escaped the crowds, she was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

Let me just begin with a sincere apology for the delay. Not to give excuses, but I've been having some health issues in addition to a large workload. Anyway, here this is (finally) and I will make a sincere effort to get the next one up much sooner!

Thanks again to all of you who have stuck with this story. I appreciate all of you very much!

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian first tried running away only a month later.

Helena noticed his missing belongings and her missing daughter within minutes. In total, his escape attempt lasted ten minutes, after which Killian was dragged back into the house and severely punished by Connor while Helena grimly overlooked the process.

He tried again a few nights later. Unfortunately, he discovered that Helena was not, in fact, a heavy sleeper. Apparently, the long hours she slept were entirely by choice rather than nature. It was a foolish mistake to make, but Killian could at least partially blame his failure on the fact that he was moving considerably slower after his latest beating.

After that, Killian decided that he needed to spend some more time planning before his next attempt. Of course, he also needed to wait until he would be physically capable of running again.

With all of his setbacks, it wasn't until two months later that he finally managed to escape, and only then with careful calculation.

The first decision he made was that he had to go alone. Unfortunately, Lyanna slowed him down considerably, and it was impossible to take Lyanna anywhere without Helena noticing. With any luck, her possessiveness would keep her daughter out of harm's way while Killian earned enough money to support her on his own. Then, of course, he would come back and take her away when neither his aunt nor his uncle expected it.

When Killian told Lyanna, she did not take it well.

Immediately, her eyes filled with tears and she started shaking her head rapidly.

"I want to go with you," she mouthed, throwing her arms around him and latching on.

"I'll come back as soon as I can, I promise," he murmured, gently extracting himself from the little girl's grip and holding her hands in his own.

She continued to shake her head and stare at the floor. A pang of guilt ran through Killian at the sight.

"Look, love... we can't stay here forever," he said tiredly. "Your father gets worse all the time. We have to do whatever is going to give us our best chance in the long run, even if it means that we might be apart for a while."

Lyanna threw her arms around Killian and, as silent as ever, let out all the grief and frustration that a child of her age could possibly have within her. Killian had no doubts that she had a great deal more than most children her age.

In the following days, Lyanna clung to him more than ever, which had Helena constantly glaring at him suspiciously. Connor was rarely home lately for reasons that remained his own, which meant that there was nothing to distract the three remaining family members from the tension between them.

The night before Killian left the house for good, Helena summoned him over to the stove to stir the latest vile creation that she deemed fit to describe as "dinner". As he stirred, she just studied his face unashamedly.

"I know you're thinking of running again," she began finally in a hard voice.

Killian didn't even acknowledge the fact that she had spoken.

"Lovely. Now I have a representative of both the dumb and the deaf in my household," she snapped, throwing her hands up in disgust. "Well, I know you can hear me, so listen well. I am not letting you leave this house, understood? If you leave, we will hunt you down. If I have to tell Connor to break your legs into tiny pieces to keep you here, so be it, but I _will_ keep you here."

Killian finally spared his aunt a glance. Her eyes were narrowed to tiny slits and her cheeks were flushed. Killian wondered vaguely if she'd lost her mind, not that he could blame her if she had. He could see faint bruising around her neck in the shape of fingers. Still, he was finding it harder and harder to pity her when she redirected Connor's anger so skillfully to her nephew at every available opportunity.

"Yes, I imagine it would be difficult for you to actually have to earn money yourself, or take care of your child, or to-"

A sharp slap silenced Killian. He shot his aunt a murderous look but didn't say anything else. Lyanna watched with huge eyes from the corner.

That night, after Helena went to bed, Lyanna clung to her cousin desperately, knowing of his plan to leave in the early morning.

"She won't hurt you," Killian whispered, stroking her hair gently. "She loves you, even if she doesn't say so."

Lyanna didn't reply.

Neither of them slept that night.

The next morning, Lyanna clung to his shirt as he put his few belongings into his violin case. Once he was done, he knelt down so that he was at Lyanna's eye level. She stared at him with large, watery blue eyes. Her lower lip started to tremble.

With a sigh, Killian pulled her gently into a hug, wondering for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing. His gut twisted at the thought of her feeling alone and unloved. Still, Uncle Connor had been growing more and more violent. Killian wouldn't have left if he wasn't concerned enough that Lyanna would be left alone with her parents even if he stayed. As it was, it was no stretch of the imagination to believe that his uncle was capable of murder, whether it was accidental or on purpose. This way, at least Killian and Lyanna stood a chance of survival.

"I'll be gone for a couple of months at most, I promise," Killian whispered, wiping away Lyanna's tears tenderly. "I swear on my life, Lyanna, I will come back for you."

Lyanna nodded. "I love you," she mouthed.

"And I you."

With a last look at his cousin, Killian took a deep breath and sprinted out the door.

Developing a plan had been easy, really. With this time of year came the inevitable bout of plague that hit the poorest communities hardest. Early each Monday morning, the wagon came to collect the bodies that had died that week. Killian had timed it so that he could catch it just as it was leaving.

"Stop!" Came Helena's shrill voice from his door as he chased after the wagon, already picking up speed. He wasn't surprised that she'd heard him; based on yesterday's speech, he imagined that she'd been on alert for any sign of him running off. She caught his arm halfway down the street, but he elbowed her hard in the ribs until she let go and then kept running. He climbed on the wagon carefully, leaving his aunt to try to catch up. Finally, when she realized she couldn't, she collapsed helplessly in the dusty road, her blonde hair in disarray.

"Auntie loves you, Killian," she called after him, her voice choked with emotion.

Killian shot her a look of disgust before clambering more securely onto the pile of bodies.

That was the last time he saw both his aunt and his cousin, and both images would be burned in his mind forever. While he'd have thought that the image of Lyanna would torture him most, it ended up being the image of his aunt. She had looked as young and fragile as her daughter, and utterly defeated. When the wagon turned the corner, she was still huddled in a ball in the street, her head bowed as though in mourning, tears watering the dry road.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"I should have asked her to come with me," Killian admitted. "Perhaps if I'd given her another chance-" his voice cracked slightly and he trailed off. His face had regained the faraway, sad expression that Emma was beginning to grow used to.

"You didn't know."

"She definitely wanted to escape from my uncle, but I doubted that she wanted the responsibility of two children," Killian said, eyes darting around in torment. "Still, perhaps she did. I never gave her the chance-"

"You did when she tried to kill herself," reasoned Emma, trying hard to push away the pity flooding her. She knew that Killian wouldn't appreciate it.

"She was little more than a child herself; of course she didn't know what to do. I think I woefully misjudged her," he confessed.

"Well, you were a kid too," Emma said gently.

Killian laughed unhappily. "Yes, I was, wasn't I?"

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian extricated himself from the bodies as soon as he was out of the city. After that, he kept off of the road and ran to his next destination. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but fear kept him moving quickly until he reached the prison.

He stared up at it in awe. His mother had never really spoken about her time in prison, which meant that Killian hadn't been able to fully picture it. It was much bigger than he had anticipated and far more secure. He felt an odd chill run up and down his spine as he looked at the fortress of stone. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought that the air felt chillier the closer he got to the building, as if it were sucking the life out of the air around it.

Fortunately, it took very little time for Ciarra to venture outside.

It had been perhaps a year since the war had ended, but she had shot up at least several inches. Nevertheless, Killian recognized her instantly.

"Killian?!" Ciarra gasped in surprise when she took in the boy sitting just off of the road.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite sort-of cousin," Killian said, plastering a grin onto his face.

With a quick, nervous glance over her shoulder, Ciarra ran up to him and threw her arms around him in a warm hug.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded, pulling away.

Killian swallowed. Here was the difficult part. "Well..." he hesitated, scratching nervously behind his ear. "I knew that you still lived with your... um... father. And I was sort of wondering if he might possibly need an assistant. Or... another one, I suppose," he nodded towards his friend.

Really, it had been the perfect idea. This way, he could stay close to the city while still being out of his uncle's reach (unless Connor decided to try to break into a prison, which he highly doubted would happen). He could earn money and be back with Lyanna in no time.

Unfortunately, as was to become a recurring theme, his idea that was perfect in theory ended up being less perfect in practice.

Ciarra paled. "Oh, Killian... I don't think so."

She looked around nervously, as if afraid she was being watched, before pulling Killian into the shadows.

"Look. I'd really love to help you, but something's happened-"

"What's wrong?" Killian interrupted with barely suppressed panic. "Are you alright?"

Ciarra nodded quickly. "Yes, I'm fine, mostly. But there's a slight problem. He sort of, well... quit drinking long enough to realize that perhaps my story was a little bit flawed. He was never very fond of me in the first place, but it's gotten worse and worse ever since I returned here from the war. He doesn't like to let me leave, even if I'm running errands for him. I heard him talking to one of his colleagues the other night, and I think he's planning to get rid of me."

"To throw you out?" Killian clarified, eyebrows knitting together.

Ciarra shuddered. "Worse. I think he wants to sell me into prostitution."

A heavy silence fell over the two friends. Killian's mind immediately flashed to Helena and his aunt's own bitter words about her past. Even though he knew it was illogical, Killian had a feeling that Ciarra becoming a whore would somehow turn her into an identical copy of his aunt. He looked at her thoughtfully, his insides twisting painfully. She looked incredibly young and innocent, but how would she look in a decade? He had to force himself to clear his mind and stop imagining her as a bitter woman incapable of loving her own child.

"I've been thinking of running away," Ciarra admitted finally in a hushed tone. "Is that what you're doing?"

Killian rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Well, yes. I was sort of planning on running to here, but I suppose I have to change my plan now."

"To what?" Ciarra prompted, hugging herself in a way that made her look very small.

"I don't know. I... suppose I might go North. My mother's family is still there. Perhaps they'll be able to help me," Killian thought out loud.

Ciarra bit her lip worriedly. "We'd best hope they're like our grandfather."

Her cousin raised his eyebrows. "We?"

"Yes, I'm coming along," Ciarra clarified, shooting him a look that left no room for argument. "Unless you want to sentence me to a life of prostitution. But, even then, I'd still follow you. You came here, and now you'll be hard pressed to get rid of me."

"Good," Killian grinned. "Traveling alone could be frightfully dull."

Ciarra dropped her hard demeanour for one of relief. "Let's go now, then, before that idiot jailer comes searching for me."

Killian nodded, and the two turned towards the road without sparing the prison or the now distant city a single glance.

* * *

"Oh, _God_, I'm knackered," muttered Ciarra several weeks of walking later. "You know what I want? A bath. I lovely bath. Filled with lavender-"

Killian rolled his eyes up to the heavens for a moment, seriously wondering what the odds were that she would pick that scent over every other possibility.

"And a hot meal. And blankets filled with feathers that are warm enough that I could burrow into them and die and be perfectly content forever-" Ciarra continued to rattle on, oblivious to Killian's reactions.

"We must be at least somewhat close," Killian interrupted, staring at the mountain peaks looming larger and larger on the horizon.

"Yes, we just need to climb a bloody mountain, isn't that right?" Ciarra complained.

"You know, it's a good thing you came with me. I bet that you'd be a bloody awful prostitute if you complained this much. They'd probably throw you out within days," Killian teased with a smirk.

"Clearly that's the only reason I came along."

"Clearly."

The pair fell into a cheerful silence.

"The beds might be more comfortable, though, wouldn't you think?" Ciarra suggested some time later.

"I've no idea," scoffed Killian.

Eventually, Killian regretted teasing his friend about her lack of suitability for prostitution, because that was just the start of her musings about her former career possibility. Several days later, once they had actually reached the mountains and were partway up, Ciarra was still bringing up the subject.

"Do you not think I'm pretty? Is that why you think I'd be an awful prostitute?"

"Shh," Killian hissed. "I think I heard something."

Immediately, all teasing was forgotten as Ciarra moved subconsciously closer to Killian. After a few seconds of listening, the two exchanged a nervous glance. Those were definitely footsteps.

The two waited nervously until several soldiers rounded the bend in the road. The soldiers looked more surprised to see the teenagers than they were to see them.

"What brings you up this road?" Asked the one in the front gruffly.

"We're on our way to the de Clare castle," Killian explained, attempting to look taller than he actually was. "Are we close?"

The guard nodded. "Indeed. We're a patrol from the castle. You're an hour away on foot at most."

Killian nodded his thanks, stepping to the side of the path and pulling Ciarra with him by her elbow.

As soon as they were gone, she groaned. "Uphill?"

Killian nodded. His heart was beating too quickly for him to concentrate on speaking. This was it. This was perhaps where he should have gone years ago when his father had abandoned him. These were family members he could trust, he was certain.

When he first saw the castle, Killian was speechlessly in awe of its beauty. It had been carved into the mountain spectacularly, so that it looked almost as if it were something grown out of the stone rather than made by man.

It took hours of waiting to be allowed to see the lord of the castle, but, finally, Killian was allowed into the main hall.

Seated in a tall, stone throne was a man who was perhaps in his mid-forties, although his greying dark hair made him look much older. His eyes were dark and intense, narrowing in on the children immediately with curiosity. Killian suddenly became very conscious of every particle of road dust on his body and his slightly ragged clothes.

"My Lord," Killian said with a respectful bow. Ciarra made to copy his movement before remembering that she was supposed to curtsy. The man raised an eyebrow in amusement as she fought to regain her balance.

"What can I do for you, lad?" He asked in a lilting accent that reminded Killian achingly of his mother's.

"I was hoping to seek your help. You may have heard of my mother, Christine Crewe-"

Before Killian could continue, the man had stood up with a deep frown.

"And you've come for my assistance, no doubt?" Asked the man coldly, changing his persona so completely that Killian was almost certain that the welcoming man he had first seen on the throne had been replaced.

Killian nodded. "Yes, my lord. You see, my parents are both dead and now my cousin, the granddaughter of Jonathan Crewe, is in danger. As for my brother, I've no idea where he is, but we all live under the threat-"

"Of the Larkins," Lord de Clare said angrily. "Yes, I know of them. They are no friends of ours."

"Or ours," Killian agreed.

The lord raised his eyebrow again. "No? If my spies can be believed, you are half-Larkin, are you not?"

Killian felt his heart sink, but he nodded. "Not by choice, my lord," he added boldly.

"Still, no Larkin is welcome here," Lord de Clare said dismissively. "I'm afraid I cannot give you what you seek."

Killian stared at the man - his last hope - in disbelief. "You can't? But we're your family! We share the same blood-"

"The blood of a bastard diluted further by Larkin blood is hardly comparable to the blood a de Clare," the lord said coolly, waving his hand at them in a gesture that clearly wished to hurry along their retreat.

"So you would condemn us to death? For all I know, my brother could be in prison right now because of the Larkins. Can't you see that we're on your side?" Shouted Killian, attempting to jerk his arm free from the soldiers now pulling him and Ciarra out the door.

Lord de Clare's eyes flashed dangerously. "From what I hear, your brother is now working for the Southern king's navy. It is quite clear where your loyalties lie, bastard."

The doors shut with a crash, but the guards didn't release the children until they had escorted them out of the castle entirely. Ciarra tentatively put her hand on Killian's shoulder in an attempt at comfort, but Killian shrugged her off and instead threw stones off of the mountain until his arms were sore and his fingers were bleeding.

"How can he do this to us?" He finally demanded, wheeling around to face an exhausted looking Ciarra.

"Because he has money and a title," Ciarra said with a shrug, seeming - to Killian - ridiculously calm and accepting of the fact.

"And Liam is working for the king now?"

"You knew he was in the navy. What did you think he would be doing?" Ciarra pointed out.

Killian shook his head. He had no idea. He'd always known what joining the navy would mean, but it was as if his mind had refused to accept the idea until it was forcefully shoved down his throat.

"It's just not fair," Killian muttered, finally collapsing onto the rocks off of the path.

Ciarra nodded in agreement. "No, but nothing has ever been fair. Why should that change now?"

Killian could think of plenty of reasons why it _should_ change. Unfortunately, destiny seemed determined to ignore his logic.

Of course, destiny had proved time and time again that she was no friend of Killian Jones, and, ironically enough, would continue to do so for hundreds of years. As a result, having fate kick him down once again was not a significant event for him. However, there was one aspect of this event that marked it as unusual.

This particular rejection marked the beginning of the slow decline of Killian's hope.


	20. Chapter 20

Alright, I definitely owe you all another apology. It's the end of the semester, which means that schoolwork has really picked up. On top of that, I have some major issues with depression... long story short, my medication has been making it hard for me to sleep, so I tried melatonin to help me get through the night. It turns out that causes depression (oops) and was counter-acting my anti-depressants. Then, on top of everything, my grandmother passed away earlier this week, and I've been a bit of a wreck since then. So, long story short, I've had a rough few weeks. I can't promise frequent updates for a while because of exams, but I haven't forgotten you all. Thank you so much for sticking with this story; you're all saints. I appreciate you all so much, and I just wish I could write more quickly so you didn't have to wait so long!

* * *

The Past

* * *

It was on Killian's sixteenth birthday that he realized that he was completely and hopelessly lost.

It had been stupid, and he only had himself to blame. After the disappointing incident with Lord de Clare, Killian and Ciarra had to decide what to do next. In the end, Killian had decided that he would rather face the unknown further North among the mountains than head back in the direction from which he had come. He knew what lay behind him, and nothing there tempted him to return. The allure of the unknown had won, and Ciarra had happily followed.

On August 18, 1816, the pair stopped early among the rock-scattered plains next to a lone pine tree. By this point, they had been wandering around for almost two weeks without any sign of a village or even any other people at all. Even worse than that was the fact that they hadn't found a water source for over a day now; this section of the mountains seemed close to a desert. Killian collapsed heavily onto the rocks and buried his head in his hands. Ciarra followed suit, but stretched out on a particularly large rock and threw an arm over her eyes. She lay there until she heard quiet laughter. Lifting her head slowly, she stared at her companion in wide-eyed alarm.

"Are... you alright?" She asked hesitantly.

"It's my birthday," Killian confessed between his bubbling laughter. "I just realized."

"I'm impressed that you're keeping track of the days we've spent on this godforsaken road," Ciarra muttered, closing her eyes again. "But happy birthday, all the same."

Killian studied his companion for a moment. Her long braid of dark hair was full of twigs and leaves, her once cream-coloured dress was now grey with dirt, and even her face had a smudge of grey on it from rock-dust. However, what concerned Killian more were the dark circles under her eyes and the amount of weight she'd visibly lost over the past weeks.

"I'm sixteen today, and, for some reason, it took this long for me to realize that I have no idea where I am," Killian continued quietly.

"I've known that for a while," Ciarra stated matter-of-factly, staring hard at the rocks at her feet to avoid meeting his eyes.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," he added even more quietly, staring at his hands.

"I pretty much forced myself on you, if you recall. I'd much rather be here with you starving to death and lost than having other people forced on me," she replied with a shudder.

Killian smiled a small twisted smile. "I'd have thought that might be more fun."

"Are you insinuating that this isn't fun?" Ciarra chuckled, then groaned. "God, my head hurts."

Her voice was hoarse too, but Killian didn't comment. His own mouth and throat felt like sandpaper, so he couldn't blame her for that.

Without further comment, Killian pulled out his violin and started to play a melancholy tune.

"Bastard," Ciarra muttered, massaging her temples.

Killian reduced the volume of the song significantly and played for a while to distract them both from their discomfort. By the time he had finished, the sun was setting and the wind had picked up. Ciarra was now huddled against her rock, shivering.

"T-that was nice," she offered.

"You're just saying that because it's my birthday," Killian replied with a half-hearted smirk.

"Well, I have to admit that it's rather sad when you have to play tunes for yourself on your birthday, but I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you that's much better." She smiled up at him, her dark eyes reflecting the setting sun.

Killian shrugged. "Having your company is privilege enough. In some ways, this is the most pleasant birthday I've had in years."

"Good lord, that _is_ tragic," Ciarra teased as her friend sat down next to her.

She moved a little bit closer to him, still shivering. "I-I suppose that I could sing for you, but I'd be rather humiliated to sing considering you got to listen to Aunt Christine every day."

"There's no need for that-" Killian said hurriedly, but Ciarra had already opened her mouth:

"_Ah poor bird,_

_Why art thou_

_Singing in the shadows_

_At this late Hour?_

_Ah, poor bird_

_Take thy flight_

_High above the shadows_

_Of this sad night_-" *

Ciarra trailed off at Killian's expression. "What?"

"That is one of the most depressing songs I've ever heard," he laughed, readjusting himself against the rock.

Ciarra grumbled for a moment before pausing to think. Killian's eyes had started to drift closed by the time she began to sing again.

"_Down yonder green valley, where streamlets meander,_

_When twilight is fading I pensively rove_

_Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander,_

_Amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove;_

_'Twas there, while the blackbird was cheerfully singing,_

_I first met that dear one, the joy of my heart!_

_Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing,_

_Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part._

_Still glows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,_

_Still warbles the blackbird its note from the tree;_

_Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,_

_But what are the beauties of nature to me?_

_With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,_

_All day I go mourning in search of my love;_

_Ye echoes, oh, tell me, where is the sweet maiden?_

_'She sleeps, 'neath the green turf down by the ash grove._'"

Her voice was quiet, hoarse, and airy, almost carried away by the mountain's brisk wind, but somehow that made it even more beautiful. He was fully aware of how painful it was to talk at the moment, never mind sing, and having someone make such a kind gesture for him was something that hadn't happened for a long time.

"Thank you," he whispered, feeling oddly touched.

Ciarra smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. "Any time."

Both teenagers slept very fitfully that night because of the cold, wind, and their general discomfort. By the time the sun had risen, Killian was fully awake and aware of just how closely Ciarra was pressed against him in a futile attempt to stay warm.

"Ciarra," he whispered softly, shaking her.

She didn't answer.

"Ciarra!" He said more urgently, his heart starting to pound in fear.

"Hmm?" She groaned, wiping her eyes clumsily.

"We should go. I don't care whether we go backwards or forwards, but we need to find some water," Killian said quickly, feeling his entire body sag with relief to see her awake.

"Agreed," Ciarra whispered, slowly pulling herself to her feet.

The following day was agony. The sun seemed particularly hot and unyielding, and both Killian and Ciarra stumbled and fell so many times that their knees were covered in scratches and gashes. By mid-afternoon, Ciarra fell and refused to get up.

"I can't walk anymore," she sobbed quietly, although Killian could see very few tears. That seemed like a bad sign.

"Just a little further, Ciarra," Killian urged her, kneeling down beside her.

"I can't. Please, just go," she wailed, voice cracking from dryness and misuse. Her brown eyes were large and frightened, almost like a startled deer before it was hunted down.

Killian bit his lip, frustration coursing through him. On one hand, he was exhausted and felt like laying down next to her and giving up. On another (yes, he still had another hand at this point)-

* * *

The Present

* * *

-Emma groaned-

* * *

The Past

* * *

-his self-preservation kicked in and reminded him that dying would be a bad idea, particularly when he'd promised Lyanna to return for her. Yet, he was unable to accept the idea of leaving Ciarra behind; she was his friend, his cousin (if not by blood), and was in this mess because of him.

"Come on," Killian muttered, starting to pull her to her feet in spite of her protests. However, in spite of his resolve, her inability to carry her own weight made the whole process somewhat ineffective.

After a moment to roll his eyes at the sky, Killian hefted his cousin over his shoulders along with his belongings (which had seemed to grow heavier and heavier throughout the day), groaning and stumbling a bit under her weight.

"You're certainly heavy for someone so skinny," he grunted.

She didn't respond. That was enough to spur Killian forward as quickly as he could, which was not very quickly under the circumstances. Each step was agony; carrying his own weight had been difficult enough, but adding his cousin was easily twice as difficult. He stumbled along at a painfully slow pace, only focusing on taking one more step. Still, he had to take multiple breaks; he came close to fainting multiple times and soon decided that it would be wiser to stop and take a break than to lose consciousness. That would be no help for anyone.

Killian would've imagined before that going downhill would be ideal for this situation, but, oddly, it was more difficult. He stumbled and fell more and more from exhaustion and the steep slope. Still, the sight of trees in the distance was enough to keep him going.

When his ears finally detected the sound of running water, he would've cried if he'd had enough water inside of himself to spare on tears. As it was, he just stumbled along as quickly as he could until he saw the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen; a slowly trickling alpine stream.

With a soft cry of relief, Killian slipped Ciarra and their few belongings gently onto the ground and stumbled towards the stream. He drank a few greedy mouthfuls of water, relishing the feel of the cool liquid on his parched throat, before moving to Ciarra and gently carrying her to the stream.

"Ciarra," he rasped, shaking her gently.

When she didn't respond, he frantically felt around for her pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when he found it faintly beating. He carefully tore a corner off of his shirt, wet it, and began to wipe her face and her neck in the hopes of rousing her. As much as he wanted to just pour water down her throat, he was too afraid of her choking and dying.

"Come on, you bloody... if you bloody die after I carried you all this way, I will never forgive you!"

Finally, one of her dark brown eyes fluttered open and focused on him dazedly. As soon as he was satisfied that she was awake, Killian cupped some water between his hands and let her drink; the last thing he wanted was for her to try to move too quickly and just pass out again. Eventually, though, she crawled into the path of the small stream, collapsed, and let the water flow into her mouth. Killian joined her soon afterwards.

They drank until they felt that they might burst before finally just letting the cool water run over them. Killian closed his eyes, feeling absolutely exhausted.

"Thank you," Ciarra whispered.

"You would have done the same," Killian retorted, pushing away her thanks with some discomfort.

"Of course," she agreed. Killian could hear the smile in her voice. "But still, thank you."

"I also got you into this situation. I couldn't very well just let you die," he added.

"Just accept my gratitude, you stupid git," she laughed weakly.

"It's woefully misplaced," Killian insisted.

She turned her head towards him with a disapproving frown. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it-"

"Oh, shut up," she murmured.

Before Killian could react, she had closed the short distance between their faces and pressed her lips firmly against his.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Wait. Hold on a second. You're kidding, right?" Emma exclaimed, looking at her companion in shock.

Killian raised his eyebrow.

"Your _cousin_ kissed you?"

The corners of his mouth quirked. "Such a thing was quite common and acceptable when I was a lad. Besides, Swan, as I have attempted to emphasize, we were not actually related. Our mothers were best friends who simply decided to call themselves family."

He smirked even more broadly at her skeptical expression.

"Still, wasn't it weird?"

"Perhaps you would know that by now if you hadn't interrupted," he teased.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian's eyes shot open in shock. Ciarra must have felt him stiffen, because she pulled away.

"Sorry," she muttered, tucking her hair behind her right ear in a gesture of insecurity. "I imagine almost dying does strange things to-"

Killian cut her off by pressing his lips against hers again, hesitantly beginning to explore her mouth. With a sigh, Ciarra relaxed against him.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Well, that answers that," Emma muttered.

* * *

The Past

* * *

After a few minutes of slow, gentle kisses, the two teenagers pulled apart. A small smile played on Ciarra's lips, still pale from her brush with near death. Nevertheless, Killian thought the sight was beautiful.

Shortly afterwards, Ciarra fell asleep, her head gently resting against Killian's shoulder. Water still ran over the two of them, and the quiet gurgling of the stream combined with the gentle breaths of Ciarra against his neck soon lulled Killian into a peaceful sleep of his own.

* * *

*English Trad.

**Welsh Trad. The first published version of this song (according to Wikipedia) was written by a Welsh musician named Edward Jones. When I saw that, I just had to throw it in here somewhere!

Sorry that this is short. I just wanted to get something up!


	21. Chapter 21

The Past

* * *

In hindsight, when Killian thought about it, perhaps it had been inevitable that he and Ciarra would develop feelings for each other. They had known each other since they were infants, grown up as each other's primary playmates, and been separated for the most awkward time of childhood when one transitions from a child to an adult. As a result, they saw each other as children and then mature adults, rather than forever thinking of the other as an adolescent who hadn't quite grown up enough yet to feel comfortable in his or her own skin. Then, throw in an adventure and some danger, and suddenly a first romance was ready to blossom.

Killian woke up slowly in the morning and watched the sun rise as Ciarra slept. To be fair, perhaps he watched her as much as he watched the sunrise. There was something incredibly breathtaking about watching the early morning light creep gently across her warm, chocolate-coloured skin and illuminate her features. Really, Killian decided, she was a very beautiful woman. Her eyelashes were long, her face round, her features soft. Her lips were thick and velvety, practically begging to be touched and caressed. Her hair was dark and fell in thick waves over her shoulders, surrounding her head like a pillow. Of course, he'd noticed her attractiveness before, but he'd never really thought about pursuing her seriously due to the general tumultuousness of his life. In spite of his age, romance hadn't been a priority when compared to goals such as survival and stealing away Lyanna. Perhaps it had been low on her list of priorities as well, at least until she was forced to face her on mortality. At least this proved that good things could come from near death experiences.

Above all, the thing that Killian appreciated most as he watched Ciarra sleep was her openness. Ciarra had a refreshing honesty about her that was never as clear as when she slept. Emotions flitted across her face as clearly as notes in a melody.

When she finally woke up, her eyes focused on Killian and a soft smile caused dimples to appear in her cheeks.

"Good morning," he murmured.

"You were watching me," she said in reply, stretching luxuriously.

"Perhaps," Killian conceded, eyes darting to the ground in some embarrassment.

"That must have been horrendously dull," she teased sleepily.

"I think it would be difficult to grow bored of something so beautiful," he replied shyly.

Ciarra glanced at him in amusement, although there was pleasure underneath it. "Sycophant. Oh, wait, does this mean that I'm beautiful enough to be a good prostitute after all?" She chattered.

"You would be a wonderful prostitute," agreed Killian, eyes twinkling in merriment. It never ceased to amaze him that Ciarra could say so much so soon after waking. In this case, it was even more amazing, considering she'd been half-dead the day before.

"How are you feeling?" He added, thinking about the previous day with a shudder.

"Wet. This is the last time I sleep in a stream, no matter how thirsty I am. Although my thirst is at least far more quenched than yesterday; perhaps I absorbed the water through my skin while I slept. Is that even possible?"

"I've no idea," he replied honestly.

Ciarra glanced at her friend sideways through her lashes. "To be perfectly honest, though, I may still be too weak to travel today. What would you say to spending the day here?"

Killian pretended to consider this. "Well, I suppose that may be necessary, as unfortunate as it is."

"Very unfortunate," agreed Ciarra, leaning towards him and closing her eyes.

Their lips meant, and they spent the entire morning discovering the ins and outs of kissing. Fortunately, they had both started with some natural skill in that area-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"I don't believe that for one second," Emma scoffed.

"No?" Killian pretended to be offended. Or, perhaps he was. Emma sometimes found him ridiculously difficult to understand.

"No. First kisses are never any good," Emma affirmed.

"Perhaps not if they're with the wrong partner. However, I gather you speak from experience, and I'm now very curious. Would you care to elaborate?" He prompted with a mischievous grin.

Emma rolled her eyes and sighed, but decided that since he was sharing his past with her so freely, it was only fair to not hold back everything herself.

"It was terrible. Our teeth were clacking together, his tongue was everywhere... I don't know how it's possible to miss lips so completely, but his tongue was pretty much everywhere _but_ my mouth. My chin was wet, my nose was wet, and he just wouldn't stop, you know? It went on and on until I was getting seriously bored and grossed out, and my face was soaked-"

She was cut off by a hearty laugh. Killian had held it in fairly well until the end of her anecdote, but clearly even a "gentleman" had his limits when it came to containing his mirth.

"It sounds like your partner was very eager indeed, not that I could blame him," Killian added with a respectful nod towards her.

Emma's heart fluttered, but, as per usual, she pushed the feeling away and ignored the honesty of his compliment.

"Eager is an understatement. It was disgusting. Anyway, I'm just saying that first kisses are not good," she returned to her point with raised eyebrows, daring Hook to contradict her.

"Well, Swan, I'm afraid to say that your experience does not change my own. We were quite cautious about it and took our time to do it properly, without any of this teeth and face molestation you speak of."

Emma snorted. "That's a great way of putting it: 'face molestation'. But still, I don't believe you."

Killian shrugged, looking very amused and self-satisfied.

"Maybe you've just forgotten how bad it was. Isn't that what happens when you get old?" Emma prodded.

"Oh, Swan, don't let jealousy turn you to petty insults and excuses," he countered.

With a scowl, Emma turned to him. "I am _not_-"

* * *

The Past

* * *

"What now?"

Killian spoke up as they were lazing in the noonday sun, feeling the pleasant weight of another body pressed tightly against his.

"Hmm?"

He chuckled, his breath blowing her dark hair gently.

"I asked what you thought we ought to do next," Killian repeated.

Ciarra groaned, burrowing further into his chest. "Oh, let's not talk about unpleasant things now. Not while the sun is shining. We're resting today, remember, and that means resting our thoughts as well."

"But-"

She tilted her head up and cut him off with a languid kiss.

As she pulled away, Killian murmured, "Still-"

Immediately, she pressed her lips against his again.

"Ciarra-"

This time, she pressed a hand over his mouth. "Let's never leave. There's water here and shade. There's probably something edible somewhere. We can hibernate like dragons in caves and give birth to our young and raise them here and never have to worry about anything ever again."

"Doesn't that sound nice," Killian agreed, pulling her hand away from his mouth to place a kiss on her palm.

"I knew I would talk you around," she declared triumphantly, shifting so that she was leaning over him, her hair creating a curtain between their faces and the outside world. For a moment, Killian was too lost staring into the bright smile of Ciarra to respond.

"The most I can do is pretend for the day," he said finally, looking into her large brown eyes intently.

"That's all I want," she conceded, eyes softening and lowering herself down to pepper his face with kisses.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Seriously?" Emma muttered.

Killian opened his mouth, eyes all glittering with mischief at the rebuttal he had yet to voice.

"I am _not_ jealous," Emma interrupted, irritated.

The teasing spark disappeared from Killian's eyes as quickly as it had come.

"Aye, I know," he agreed, and Emma felt a momentary twinge of guilt that she quickly pushed away angrily.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"The only thing that would make this day more perfect," Ciarra declared, "would be an entire roast chicken, with potatoes and beans and carrots and-"

Killian hummed in agreement, cutting her off before she could make him even more hungry. "There seems to be a shortage of those."

With a sigh, Killian stood and broke a branch off of the nearest tree. He pulled back the bark piece by piece to reveal the white insides of the branches.

"Dinner?"

"Oh, thank you, sir," Ciarra said with a mock curtsy, taking the twig from him and biting the rubbery innards.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You ate sticks?" Emma scoffed.

"Swan, as I've said before, you've clearly never been starving. Food is clearly never lacking in your realm. However, when there's none to be found, one has to make do."

"But twigs?" She demanded incredulously.

Killian chuckled. "Yes, Swan. Rather tasteless, and peeling back the bark is a bit of a chore, but they'll keep you alive."

From her expression, it must have been obvious that she still didn't believe him, because Killian slowly and painfully hauled himself to his feet. With a flourish, he picked a thin branch from the tree above them and used his hook to scrape away the wood. After a moment of inspection, he passed it to her.

"No, I'm not eating a tree," Emma said stubbornly.

"You don't have to. I'm just showing you that it's edible," Killian explained.

Emma looked at the stick curiously. The white innards that were revealed were scentless and felt a bit like foam. They were also strangely square, although perhaps that was just because of the way Killian had scraped away the bark. In spite of her better sense, Emma finally bit off a small piece of the thin white substance. It took her a moment to chew - it was more or less like chewing a half-cooked noodle - but she managed to swallow it.

"It really does taste like nothing," Emma agreed. "You lived on this?"

"For weeks," Killian agreed, looking at the stick distastefully. Apparently, two hundred years wasn't long enough to get over weeks of a tasteless diet.

"There's not much under the bark," she added. It was probably a millimeter in diameter at most.

"I said that it kept us alive, not that it kept us full," Killian said with a shrug, sitting carefully back down beside her.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The rest of the day passed quickly as the young lovers continued their pleasurable activities-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Pleasurable activities?" Emma asked against her better judgment.

Killian smirked and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Seriously?" Emma groaned.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;

Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font.

The firefly wakens; waken thou with me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake.

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me."*

He sang the words softly into her ear as she lay still and pressed against him, her breath caressing his bare skin. The words hung in the air like the stars in the sky for a blissful moment of silence, and, just for a moment, everything was perfect. Even in the darkness, Killian could see the smile etched into Ciarra's face.

"You should sing more often," Ciarra murmured finally, looking up at him seriously.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Wait a second-"

Killian let out a dramatic sigh. "Swan, must you interrupt every other word? This is becoming excessive. At this rate, we will be back in our own time by the time I finish this story."

Emma shot her companion a frosty glare. "You sang?"

"No," Killian said flatly. "Very rarely."

"You sang for your girlfriend?" A slow smirk was starting to etch its way onto Emma's face as she considered a sixteen-year-old Killian singing love songs.

"Music was a way of life in my time, love. It was what we did, particularly in my family," Killian dismissed it with a shrug.

"And then you just stopped?" Her curiosity had been unashamedly peaked.

"I never started," Killian insisted, avoiding her eyes. "My uncle tried to get me to sing on the stage he managed, and I refused. That was my mother's skill, not mine."

"But you sang for your girlfriend."

"Aye. That's what I told you. It was a special occasion. Certainly I wouldn't have done so if I weren't half giddy from a first romance," he defended himself shortly.

"Will you-"

"No," Killian cut her off. "Absolutely not."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"I don't think so," Killian replied, thankful for the darkness to hide his blush.

"I love your voice, though," Ciarra told him.

"High praise indeed from a woman of such wonderful taste."

Ciara just smiled, almost wickedly. "Is that a double entendre?"

Killian choked on a laugh. "Only if you take it that way."

A peaceful silence fell over the young couple for a few minutes, Killian well aware of each breath Ciarra took and each beat of her heart.

"So, tomorrow-"

Ciarra groaned. "No, not that cursed word. We're focusing on today, remember?"

"I think you'll like what I have to say," Killian defended himself gently, placing a soft kiss to her temple.

"I'd like making love again more," Ciarra pouted.

"We can do that too, but first let me just propose an idea. Let's walk until we find a city, work and rent a small room together, leave one day to get Lyanna, and then live there peacefully without thinking of anything awful again. It will be like living here in the forest, but just a bit more sustainable."

"I was imagining that would be our plan anyway," Ciarra chuckled. "But if it makes you feel better to voice it and get my consent, then certainly."

"Perfect," Killian agreed, rolling her over and slowly kissing her once again.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma opened her mouth to complain, but Killian cut her off before she could say anything.

"I could be making this a thousand times more graphic, Swan. Count your blessings. Besides, I could always stop here-"

"No matter how many times you suggest that, it's not going to change anything. Keep talking," Emma insisted.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The plan ended up working well. They were still hopelessly lost for another month, but eventually found a small village where the mountains met the ocean. It was technically in another kingdom, but that only seemed like good fortune.

Killian quickly found work as a labourer, helping to build ships. The hours were long and the work exhausting, but it kept a roof over his and Ciarra's heads. Ciarra found work in a shop near the small room they rented. It was literally just a room, with only enough space for a small, lumpy bed, but it was enough space for the two young and fully enamoured lovers. In spite of their long work days and exhaustion, they always found the time to enjoy each other, and would often pass almost the entire night awake because of their long conversations (among other activities).

It was perfect. The money started to add up, which only filled Killian with hope; perhaps he would be able to return for Lyanna within the year.

Winter came and went and each day followed a similar routine of near-bliss that Killian hadn't experienced for years. It seemed that nothing would be able to shatter it.

Then, one cold and rainy night in April, the peace was shattered by the sound of a knock on the door.

"Who on earth would that be?" Ciarra asked, eyebrows furrowing as she gripped Killian's hand nervously. The town they had found was always quiet at night; neither could imagine a single person who would be at the door.

"I've no idea," Killian muttered, moving towards the door with a knife. Ciarra followed nervously at his heels, eyes wide as the knocking continued.

After a deep breath and a squeak of fright from Ciarra, Killian threw open the door, holding his knife tightly in preparation. However, it fell from his hand as his eyes raked over the man in front of him, sopping wet and dressed in a dark blue navy uniform.

"Killian!" The man said, his voice breaking in relief as his blue eyes settled on Killian's scar.

Killian's heart hammered as he stared at the man in front of him, a mix of emotions flashing through him.

"Liam?!"

* * *

*This one is a slightly shortened version of Tennyson's poem. Not my words, unfortunately!


	22. Chapter 22

The Past

* * *

"Liam?!"

The name slipped out of Killian's mouth without his consent as he stared at his brother in shock. Before he could say anything else, Liam had taken two large steps forward and enveloped him in a huge hug. After a moment of surprise, Killian returned it, breathing in the comforting scent of the ocean.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, dumbfounded.

Liam released him and put his hands on his younger brother's shoulders, examining him carefully.

"You've grown up, haven't you?" He said with a grin.

Killian felt something slide back into place. The brother he'd known before ignored his questions until he was ready to answer them too; older siblings inevitably insisted that even a simple conversation happened by their terms.

"And you've grown both up and out," Killian teased.

When he'd last seen his brother, he'd been a gangly and half-starved youth of fourteen. Now he was a stocky and muscular man almost in his mid-twenties with the hint of a beard shadowing his jaw. There were some similarities to the boy he'd known, of course; his hair still fell in unruly curls, his nose was still over-sized, and intelligent eyes still peaked out under bushy eyebrows. Still, it was strange to see his brother as a grown man. Killian guessed that Liam was thinking the same thing from the sharp way his eyes continued to rake over his younger brother.

"I'm afraid I can't really say the same for you," Liam retorted, eyeing his much slighter brother in some amusement.

It was at that moment that Ciarra interrupted, clearing her throat pointedly and poking Killian in the back.

"You remember Ciarra?" He said quickly, nodding towards his companion.

Liam stared at her in amazement. "Good lord, you're alive! I thought you'd died years ago."

"I hate to disappoint, but no, I assure you that I'm quite alive. At least, to my knowledge," she babbled.

"Well, you two certainly have a great deal of explaining to do," Liam said pointedly.

"Please, sit down." Killian gestured towards the bed.

Liam looked around for a moment as if searching for a chair. A flicker of some emotion that Killian couldn't quite read passed over his face when he seemed to realize that the bed was the only piece of furniture in the small room. He moved over and sat down stiffly, then cleared his throat with a pointed look at his brother.

"So… how long have you two been living here?"

Killian sat down a good distance from his brother, and Ciarra scurried over to his side. Liam's eyes widened when he saw how closely she sat to his brother, but he didn't comment.

"Less than a year," Killian replied, looking at his hands nervously.

"Are you certain?" Asked Ciarra in surprise. "I could swear it's been longer-"

"Yes." Killian cut her off. Normally, she probably would have argued the point, but, instead, she shot Liam a nervous look and kept her mouth shut.

A pregnant pause filled the room as Liam waited for more of an explanation.

"Well, I suppose you want to know how I'm alive…"

Ciarra launched into the long anecdote of the past nine years of her life, stumbling over her words nervously and throwing her hands around in extravagant gestures as she tended to do when she was nervous. Much to his shame, Killian was relieved to not have to tell his part of the story yet. It made him feel like a bit of a coward, but telling Liam what had happened since their separation was frightening. The thing he feared most of all was hurting Liam with news of their father or the fact that Killian, even while knowing where Liam was, never attempted to find him.

"And then we journeyed here!" Ciarra finished far too soon, grabbing Killian's hand and squeezing it. Killian forced a small smile that ended up looking far more like a grimace.

"Quite a tale," Liam said in his low rumble of a voice. "I feel quite fortunate to find you both alive if you fought in the war a few years back; I heard that it was quite a bloody and gruesome affair."

"It was a slaughter," corrected Killian, deciding that Liam's description was too kind by far.

"Indeed," Liam remarked, eyes boring into his brother's. "Now, brother, tell me-"

"What are you doing here, Liam?" Killian interrupted, genuinely curious.

There was a pause, in which Liam suddenly became very interested in the buttons on his jacket.

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Killian, but father is dead. He was executed some years ago for some extensive criminal charges-"

"I'm aware. I attended the execution," he replied quickly, feeling some relief sink through him as he realized that Liam probably already had some expectations in regards to the true nature of their father's character.

"I was there as well," Liam stated with audible relief.

"That must have been a nasty shock," Ciarra said sympathetically, reaching across Killian's lap to pat Liam's knee awkwardly in an attempt at comfort.

Liam grimaced. "It was. I had to pretend that I'd no idea of his identity, of course. I assumed that the charges were falsely levelled against him by the king or our grandfather, but he looked almost like a different man, which caused me to have my doubts…"

He trailed off, eyes distant. Killian winced as he revisited his own memories of the gruesome event. His father hadn't been given the opportunity to make a speech, but he had yelled abuse at Lord Alasdair and the king as he was dragged to his death nonetheless. Killian had stayed hidden in the shadows, but he remembered the lifelessness in his father's eyes as he went to die. To Killian, he looked like a man already dead. His shouting was certainly just for show; Killian got the sense that, if anything, his father's death brought Edward only some relief.

"They were true. Mother's death destroyed him, Liam. He was torn apart by his grief, and abandoned me as a result. He likely committed crimes for the same reason," Killian confirmed quietly.

"Well, the more I see of the king, the more I think that the accusations must have been true," agreed Liam. "Our parents were wrong, Killian. The king is a good man with a tremendous sense of honour and obligation towards his people. Perhaps father led mother astray. Regardless, I don't think he was what we thought he was."

Killian nodded, although he privately disagreed. He knew that Liam tended to see things in black and white, and he decided that correcting him would be futile. It would only cause Liam pain, and he would be far too stubborn to admit that there could be any other truth than their father simply being a "criminal".

"Anyways, since you weren't with our father, I assumed that you must have been separated. Ever since I graduated from the naval academy, I've spent every spare second looking for you! I searched the city first, of course, but I couldn't find any trace of you. I searched every port I came to thereafter, assuming that you must have never returned to the city or else left it. I feel stupid now, discovering that you were in the city all along-"

Blinking rapidly, Killian stared at his older brother. Liam had looked for him? He'd actually cared enough to want to find him? The thought was shocking.

"I didn't live in a prominent neighbourhood," Killian finally said. "I lived in the slums with our Uncle Connor and his family."

Liam paled. "You went to live with him? Willingly?"

"I had nowhere else to go," Killian justified himself. "Well, nowhere except to you, and I couldn't take your chance at a future from you."

Liam stared at his younger brother, stunned. "I wouldn't have minded-"

"But I would have."

The two brothers stared at each other for a moment, each stunned at the quiet love the other brother had provided without their knowledge.

"Anyway, there's little to tell from that time, except that I soon discovered Connor and Helena to be inadequate parents to their daughter. I left to prepare a new home for her, and Ciarra ended up coming along. I hope to retrieve her soon, actually."

Liam frowned deeply. "You were with Uncle Connor! How stupid of me! That was the one place I eliminated from my search because I never thought you would be crazy enough to live with that madman-"

"He's a terrible father, but really not as bad as he used to be," Killian said.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"So you lied."

It wasn't a question.

Killian sighed. "Yes, I lied. I wanted to reduce the amount of hurt Liam suffered on my behalf."

"So you never told him? Ever?"

"No," Killian admitted.

Emma sighed, feeling sadness on behalf of her companion for the burden that he had probably rarely shared. Still, she could understand. Whenever she spoke of her foster homes to her parents, which was rarely, if she could help it, she always spoke of very general evils. The bad memories weren't worth repeating or throwing on her parents, who she'd come to realize carried enough guilt surrounding her abandonment.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"You're the first mate of the ship?" Killian repeated, impressed.

"Indeed," Liam confirmed proudly.

After sharing more details, all three young people had grown more comfortable with one another and were now lounging far more relaxedly across the bed.

"How soon do you leave, Liam?" Ciarra asked, then blanched. "Oh, lord, I wasn't meaning that I wanted to get rid of you, I was only wondering how much more of you we'd get to see before you were gone."

Liam grinned at her kindly before answering. "Tomorrow, I'm afraid. We're stopping here only briefly." His eyes flickered to his brother's and he cleared his throat. "Um… I actually had something that I wanted to talk to you about."

Killian gestured for him to go ahead.

"What I wish for more than anything would be… well, I was hoping that you might consider coming back with me. We're going back to the city, and I just thought that perhaps now that I'm receiving a wage I could pay for you to attend naval school and become an officer as well. It's short, and you're clever, which means that you should only be there for two years or so." Liam spoke quickly, but perhaps his nervousness was only obvious to Killian; his childhood habits still remained, providing glaring tells that soothed Killian with their normalcy.

Biting his lip, Killian considered. "I appreciate the offer, Liam, really I do, but I'm not certain that I can. I will go back to the city with you; I was hoping to retrieve Lyanna anyway, and this provides as good of an opportunity as any-" Ciarra nodded rapidly behind him "-but I'm not certain about your other offer. While I appreciate that you would assist me, I'm not sure that it's logistically possible. I swore to return for Lyanna, and I can hardly take care of her if I'm at school and then sailing around the realm."

There was a pause, as Liam stared down at his hands, jaw clenched in disappointment. Finally, he looked up with a faint smile. "Well, at least this is a start. Perhaps the journey will give me enough time to convince you."

"I'm sorry, but I doubt it. I can't leave Lyanna nor Ciarra. I don't wish to, and it would be wrong of me."

"Don't factor me into this, Killian," Ciarra cut in with a faint smile. "I appreciate it, but I wouldn't have you destroy your future on my behalf. I would be happy to wait for you while you sat around with books or traveled the world if it was the best thing for you. I know that you'd always come back for me."

Killian smiled at her, feeling his heart warm with appreciation of the young woman who sat beside him.

"I would," he agreed, resisting the urge to kiss her. Instead, he turned again to his brother. "I know how stubborn you are-"

Liam opened his mouth to protest.

"-but please, Liam, just trust me when I say that this is what I need to do."

His brother looked extremely unhappy, but he nodded.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"But that clearly didn't happen," Emma interrupted.

Killian smirked. "An extremely clever conclusion," he mocked, although not maliciously.

"Did he convince you after all, then?"

Her friend winced. "No, not exactly."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian stopped, causing both his brother and Ciarra to crash into him.

"What is it?" Ciarra questioned, her voice an octave higher than normal. "Are you lost?"

Liam also looked at him questioningly, but it took a moment for Killian to find his voice to reply.

He'd known something was wrong the moment he saw the little house. No shouting echoed from the open windows, no smells of frankly inedible cooking wafted through the air, and no smoke escaped from the chimney. Not even a light shone from within.

"There's something wrong," he said quietly, staring at the obviously abandoned house with dread.

Liam followed his gaze to look at the far too quiet house. "Perhaps they moved."

Killian shook his head, already picking up his pace as he moved towards the house. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in his throat. When he reached the door, he lifted a hand to knock, only to find that it wasn't even latched properly; it swung open and shut with every waft of air from the street.

Nervously, Killian pushed the door open to look inside, immediately recoiling in horror at the scene.

"What's wrong?" Ciarra asked, coming up behind him.

"Don't look," he ordered roughly, directing her away from the door.

She disregarded him entirely, as she tended to do, and gasped as her eyes fell upon the gruesome scene. Liam also winced obviously at the sight. For a moment, all the three of them could do was stare in open-mouthed horror at Killian's second childhood home.

The first thing they saw when looking in was the body hanging from his neck, attached by a rope to the ceiling. It cast weird shadows throughout the dim, dusty house, and the body had obviously been there for some time.

However, it was once Killian's gaze traveled further that he felt his heart break. Two other bodies lay next to the table, one small and one large. Killian walked forward as though in a trance to what remained of his aunt and his cousin, the child who had stolen his heart. He couldn't decide which sight was more disturbing; Lyanna had clearly died from a wound to the head, based on the blood matting her hair. There was also blood on the table, which led Killian to wonder if she had died by hitting her head there, although it was hard to tell because of the rest of the blood around the two bodies. Helena was completely unrecognizable, beaten beyond recognition. As horrible as it was to see Lyanna dead, at least she was recognizable. Helena could have been anyone; what was left of her lay in the fetal position next to her daughter. Flies oversaw the entire scene, buzzing angrily.

"I think I may be sick," Ciarra blurted, running from the house. Killian barely heard her.

Liam, on the other hand, surveyed the scene fairly calmly before coming to put a comforting hand on his younger brother's shoulder. He didn't say anything, which made Killian grateful.

Finally, once he was ready, he broke the silence. "What do you think happened?" His voice was choked and rough as he held back the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"You knew them better than I did. Did someone come kill them, do you think?"

Killian nodded mutely.

"Perhaps I'll go arrange their burials and give you a moment," Liam suggested, thinking as logically as ever.

As soon as his brother was gone, Killian knelt down beside the remains of his young cousin and smoothed her hair with shaking fingers. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't seem to drag his eyes away. Even as his vision blurred with tears that finally overflowed, they remained fixed on the little girl.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"What actually happened?" Emma asked softly, detecting the lie easily.

Killian stared into the distance for a moment, lips a tight line.

"I can only guess, of course," Killian began. "But, if I had to guess, I would say that Lyanna took a beating that went too far. There were signs of some earlier abuse, you understand. I would guess that my uncle perhaps knocked her into the table, which caused her to hit her head. She would have died due to the impact. Perhaps that's just wishful thinking, though… I hate to imagine her suffering."

His voice cracked slightly and he stopped, taking a moment to compose himself. Emma pretended not to notice.

"As for Helena," Killian continued, "I imagine that she saw that her daughter was dead and provoked Connor through her accusations. I would guess that he beat her to death, then perhaps realized the full extent of irreversible damage he had caused, and ended his own miserable life rather than letting the law do so."

Something seemed a little bit off, but Emma couldn't quite put her finger on it. Silence fell as Killian was lost in his grief and Emma tried to figure out what was causing her lie detector to go off.

"This isn't just speculation, is it?" She said in a moment of sudden realization.

Killian grimaced.

"Did you see it happen?" She pressed, her horror growing by the second.

"In a matter of speaking," he admitted, his voice strained.

"Meaning?"

"Not as it happened," he clarified.

Emma looked at him in confusion.

"Perhaps this is one thing we had best leave be," Killian suggested tersely.

"Why? What happened?" Emma asked with a growing feeling of dread.

"It's just too bloody painful, alright, Emma?" Killian snapped, losing his usual composure.

An abrupt silence fell on the pair. Emma felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, which only made her angry. He had said that he would tell her anything, hadn't he?

After a minute, Killian sighed and turned back to Emma tiredly. "I apologize, Swan. I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"No… it's alright," Emma replied slowly, forcing herself to push her pride aside. "I guess I probably shouldn't have kept pushing you."

"No, it's natural for you to want to know, and I've been open with you about everything else so you had no reason to assume that I would stop. This is my fault entirely."

Emma shook her head, feeling the guilt radiating off of her companion.

"Do you know where I got the name Swan?"

Killian started, completely thrown off-guard. "What?"

"My first foster family had that last name. They were this really nice older couple, both professors at the city's university. They'd tried for years and years to have a baby, but they couldn't, so they ended up taking me in. They were really great parents for a while, even if they were usually pretty busy with work. We had some good times together; I remember, during one winter, we had a snow day and we made snowmen of all of us! It felt like a real family, you know? I remember when I learned the alphabet, I kept drawing my S's backwards, and Mrs. Swan got me to remember how to draw it by drawing a swan in the shape of an S. Then, one day, Mrs. Swan miraculously ended up pregnant. I was so excited. I thought I was going to have a little sibling, but then Mr. and Mrs. Swan started to become cold with me. I'd be playing too loudly and they'd yell at me for giving them a headache, when it had never been a problem before. I'd cry and they'd get angry at me for misbehaving. After a while, it seemed like a couldn't do anything right. I thought it was my fault, but I thought I could fix things. That was, until one day, we went out for dinner and the waitress told Mr. and Mrs. Swan that I was 'an adorable daughter'. Mrs. Swan corrected them right away and said that I wasn't really hers. They gave me away a few weeks later. I cried and screamed and begged them not to let them take me away, but they just ignored me. It broke my heart, and it's still my worst memory. Mr. Swan just looked so disgusted, and Mrs. Swan only glanced at me before going inside. She didn't even say goodbye. I'd never felt so alone or unloved in my life." A small tear escaped and rolled down Emma's cheek, thankfully on the side Killian wasn't sitting on.

Killian looked stricken. "That's horrible."

Emma nodded. "Yeah. I kept the name, though, even though it hurt so much, because I still had this ridiculous fantasy that they would come back and tell me that giving me up had been a mistake. It was my way of holding onto my past; before Mrs. Swan got pregnant was the only time I ever really felt loved, and I wanted to find that again so badly. I wanted to be enough."

She was crying in earnest now, swiping at her tears irritably. "Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize, love," Killian assured her, gently wiping away her tears with his hand.

Emma nodded and took a moment to collect herself.

"I imagine it's not much comfort, Swan, but I have to say that I can't imagine how anyone would be foolish enough to want to give you up," the pirate told her earnestly.

"You'd be surprised," Emma replied, although she smiled faintly in spite of herself.

Killian sighed and looked her in the eyes seriously. "Torture."

"What?"

He paused, closing his eyes a moment as if to prepare. "There are many forms of torture, Swan. Being a pirate, I am intimately acquainted with many of them. I have used many of them, and I have also had them used on me."

Emma's gut clenched. "You've been tortured?"

"Multiple times," Killian said with a shrug. "However, the worst torture I ever endured was a form of mental torture at the hands of a particularly vicious and intelligent woman, who gathered that the worst punishment for some is not physical, but emotional. She had come across a potion that caused its victims to see the worst images from their pasts. For me, one of those was the deaths of my aunt, uncle, and Lyanna. I had to watch multiple times as my uncle beat Lyanna and threw her into the corner of the table. I watched her die over and over, and she always looked so small and helpless, no matter how many times I watched. Then I had to watch Helena start screaming when she realized her daughter was dead, and my uncle beating her just to shut her mouth and stop the noise. Then, I had to watch his reaction in the morning, when he called for Helena to make him breakfast, only to realize that he'd killed her and his daughter. I had to watch him totally break down, when I'd never seen an instant of vulnerability or regret from him before. I had to watch him break and, finally, kill himself."

Emma shook her head in disbelief, watching as a tear ran down Killian's cheek. He seemed totally unaware of it, totally lost in the world of torture that was his past.

"I'm so sorry," Emma whispered.

Killian forced a smile. "No need, love. It was a long time ago."

Although she didn't call him out on it, Emma knew that was a lie. If she'd learned anything from this story and her own experience, it was the fact that time did not, in fact, heal all wounds.

"Thank you for telling me," Emma said.

"It was a small price to pay in exchange for what I got to learn about you," he told her with a smile. "Thank you."

* * *

The Past

* * *

That night, Killian went to the graveyard alone. Neither Ciarra nor Liam tried to come with him, both knowing him well enough to sense that he needed to be alone.

He took several objects with him, including his violin, some paper and a pencil, and Lyanna's doll.

Finding the doll, Emily, had been an accident. While waiting for Liam to return, he'd stroked Lyanna's hair and held her hand, whispering soft words of comfort to her. It was only when he shifted that he realized that he was kneeling on the doll he'd given his cousin. She was worn, but the threads of her face still gathered into a small smile. Finding the doll had been the last straw. He picked her up and suddenly the tears spilled over, falling onto the bloodstained floor. In the end, when Liam came back, it was to Killian cradling the small cloth doll to his chest and sobbing silently.

Now the doll was sitting cheerfully in his violin case.

First, Killian stopped at Christine's grave, caressing the top of the smooth, grey stone. Then, he walked to the three new graves, murmuring a soft prayer over Helena's before sitting on the fresh one that now housed Lyanna.

"I brought you your doll," he whispered, pulling Emily out of his violin case and placing her gently against the headstone.

Of course, there was no answer but the quietly chirping crickets.

"I'm so sorry," Killian added, caressing the newly carved letters on the headstone. "I should have taken you with me, or come back sooner, or done _something_. This is my fault."

Again, no one answered, which he took as the universe's confirmation of his declaration.

"Please come back," he sobbed, leaning against the stone. "I thought you needed me, but it was really I who needed you. I love you, Lyanna. I would have given my life for you. I still would, if it meant that you could come back. At least now you have Emily..." He could barely breathe now because of his sobs. "At least now Emily can hold your hand, so you won't be alone. Oh, God, I never should have left you, but I kept my promise... I did come back. It was just too late..."

He spent the night there, writing a song and talking to his cousin, catching her up on what had happened since he'd been away. When the sun rose, he finally accepted the fact that it was time to go, before Ciarra and Liam came looking for him.

"Sleep well, princess," he murmured, running his hand along the freshly turned earth.

He looked back only once. Emily smiled.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please favourite or review if you feel so inclined! :)

I just wanted to let you all know that I'm going away for ten days starting this Monday and probably won't have internet. I'll try to have another chapter up by then, but, if I don't, that's why you're waiting a little bit longer! (Although I guess you're all veterans at waiting by now... sorry about that!)


	23. Chapter 23

The Past

* * *

"You're sure about this?"

Ciarra murmured the question in his ear as she hugged him from behind, placing her chin gently on his right shoulder.

A sigh escaped Killian's lips as his hands met hers, wrapped lovingly around his torso. Carefully, he brought one of her satiny hands to his lips and laid a kiss on it, before turning to face her.

"No," Killian confessed.

Ciarra nodded as though she'd been expecting it, then grabbed his hand and dragged him away from his almost finished packing and over to the window seat of their rented room. She pushed him down unceremoniously onto one side and sat across from him, eyeing him sternly.

"Killian, I love you, so don't conclude that I say this for selfish reasons. I just want you to know that you have absolutely no obligation to go to this naval academy. You don't owe Liam anything; you need to do what's best for your own happiness-"

"And what about for you?" Killian interrupted gently. "If I become a naval officer, I can support you so that you won't have to work anymore." The thought made his heart ache. Ciarra hadn't complained about working back in their old Northern port town, but he'd seen the way she dragged her feet from tiredness and rubbed her aching back when she thought he wasn't looking.

"I don't mind working," Ciarra insisted.

"But you shouldn't have to," he argued. "If I do this, I can make enough money for us both."

"And what about you? Do you want to serve the king? Is that what's going to bring you happiness, or will it consume you?" Asked Ciarra softly, gently pressing her hand to his cheek.

"I'm not so certain that I can possibly predict my capability for happiness right now," Killian admitted.

"I know you're grieving, but that doesn't mean that you need to-"

"I only know one thing," Killian said, scratching nervously behind his ear. "Any career that brings you happiness will bring me happiness. I want you to have a wonderful life, Ciarra. I want you to not have to struggle to survive anymore. I want you to be able to sit in your house without a care in the world. I want to provide that for you, if I can, and perhaps provide for… others, eventually."

His heart started to pound as an agonizingly slow smile spread itself across Ciarra's face. "Are you saying what I think you are?"

Killian nodded, feeling a blush warm his cheeks. "Ciarra, if you would have me, I would love to make you my wife. I would love to grow old with you and raise our children and _oof_-"

He was cut off as Ciarra launched her lips onto his own. She pulled away with a radiant smile that brought out large dimples in her cheeks. Killian had to fight back the urge to kiss them.

"Yes, yes, a million times yes," she breathed, dark eyes sparkling.

"You'll wait while I finish school?" Killian confirmed, eyes searching hers as if he couldn't quite believe he'd heard correctly.

"Of course, you halfwit," she agreed, eyes already closing as she leaned in to kiss him.

She had Killian's shirt half unbuttoned, and he was working on the laces at the back of her dress, when the soft clearing of a throat made them both freeze.

"Um... perhaps I ought to come back later?" Liam suggested, lingering in the doorway with a look somewhere partway between amusement and horror.

Ciarra let out an embarrassed squeak. "No, no, Liam, of course not. We're doing nothing that can't be resumed later. I was just... um... helping Killian change his shirt so that... he can pack this one."

Killian, who was in the midst of re-buttoning it, doubled over in silent laughter behind her.

"Clearly," agreed Liam, his eyebrows raised. "Well, come down when you're finished. I'll... um... leave you to it."

As the door closed with a soft click, Killian and Ciarra's eyes met and their suppressed laughter rose to a crescendo.

"Oh, God, I think we've traumatized him," Ciarra choked, face still flushed with embarrassment.

"It's not like he didn't know it was happening," Killian replied. "But still... his face!"

They burst into giggles again.

When their laughter had finally died down, and both of their sides were aching from their mirth (Killian wondered if it was God's punishment for laughing at his brother's expense), Killian put his last few items into his bag. Since first leaving his home, the amount he carried with him hadn't really changed, which meant that he had very little to take.

"Write often?" Ciarra requested, blinking back tears.

"Of course," Killian agreed, gently kissing her goodbye and catching a fallen teardrop on his finger. "I'll see you again soon, I promise."

"Yes," agreed his fiancée with a brave smile.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"I'm guessing you didn't, though," Emma interjected.

* * *

The Past

* * *

In fact, Killian was able to see her every month or so while he was away at school, when his workload was sufficiently light that he could journey to the other side of the city for a day.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian chuckled at the surprised expression on Emma's face.

"No, not every acquaintance of mine died the second we parted ways," he confirmed.

"What happened, then?" Asked Emma.

Killian's amusement died almost immediately. "I'll get to that soon enough."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Most boys started at a younger age than Killian at the naval academy, but, rather than being a hindrance, Killian actually found himself at an advantage. The program usually took two years to complete, but, within a week, Killian had been transferred to second year classes. That meant that, by his eighteenth birthday, he had already left the academy to continue his education on a ship within the navy.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Hold on, you just skipped your entire year of school," Emma protested.

"There's not much to tell," Killian countered.

Emma rolled her eyes, lack of sleep now making her increasingly irritable.

"Were you some sort of genius kid in _everything_, or did they just push you ahead a year because you were old?" She demanded.

"Neither. I'd had quite a good education from my parents before they died, which meant that I was proficient in most subjects."

"Which were?" Emma prompted.

"Foreign languages, etiquette, dance, music, navigation, fencing, writing and grammar, maths, battle strategy and tactics, and, of course, practical knowledge about ships in general. I already had a working knowledge of most, with the exception being skills specific to a ship such as navigation. However, I found common sense allowed me to keep up with my peers," he shrugged.

"Some of those are so strange," Emma muttered.

Her companion looked vaguely offended. "How so?"

"Why would you need to know things about etiquette on a ship?"

"To avoid getting flogged. Or for visiting court." Killian listed them as though they were obvious.

"And your parents taught you that?" Emma asked in amazement.

"While neither of them intended for us to ever visit court, both had spent a considerable amount of time there. Old habits die with difficulty, and you'd be surprised how often points of etiquette would frequent the tales my mother told Liam and me."

Killian smiled at a distant memory. Emma was half-tempted to ask him about it, but she wasn't certain that she could stand listening to Killian recount his mother's stories of "Mr. Manners" and how he learned that bowing a certain way was wrong. Of course, perhaps Christine had made the stories more interesting than the ones that popped into Emma's imagination; Emma wasn't particularly willing to find out.

"Foreign languages?"

"My mother sang in multiple languages and was extremely proficient at them, which meant that she wanted her children to be as well," the pirate reasoned.

"So you're bilingual?" Demanded Emma, starting to feel extremely stupid.

Killian gave her a surprised look. "Of course not, love. I know... five. Six? Six."

Emma's eyes widened.

"I only had a working knowledge of three outside of English at the time," Killian said quickly. "But I had to do _something_ while I passed the years in Neverland. Besides, it's quite simple once you know one other language besides your native tongue; the others just simply fall into place."

A skeptical look flitted across Emma's face, but she quickly pushed it away and changed the subject. "Okay, you said music, clearly _that _wasn't an issue-" Killian suppressed an ungainly snort "-but dancing? Why dancing on a ship?"

"You'd be surprised how often one frequents court as a naval officer."

"And your parents taught you that?"

"Aye," agreed Killian with another distant smile.

* * *

The Past - 1805

* * *

"Play me a tune, would you, love?" Requested Christine, blowing sweaty curls out of her face as she prepared dinner.

"Do I have to?" Complained Killian, who was currently lounging in a living room chair with a pout as he waited for Liam to get home. Liam got to go to the docks with their father that day, which struck Killian as massively unfair. _He_ hadn't been allowed since he was too young, even though he didn't imagine that age mattered when he'd just be watching his father work anyway. Edward was currently helping out some fisherman, which meant that he came home every day smelling strongly of salt and more strongly of fish. Killian tried to make himself feel better by reminding himself that he could tease Liam for smelling like fish, but it did little to ease the ache of being left out.

"Yes," Christine told him sternly, waving the ladle in his vague direction. "You're bored stiff, I'm hot as hell, and both of us could use a distraction."

Try as he might, Killian had to admit that his mother's logic was sound. At any rate, playing violin couldn't be any worse than sitting here while Liam got to go out with their father. Plus, his mother had cursed, even if "it's a place, so it doesn't count as a curse, Killian", which always impressed her youngest son, so he supposed that he ought to thank her for that.

With a sigh, Killian climbed off of the chair and got his violin. After tuning - "Killian, I know you're playing that out of tune on purpose. I'm not your father, I can tell," - he played a loud, dissonant chord that made his mother jump slightly.

"How about a waltz?" She suggested, calmly staring her son down. Unlike Edward, Christine never got angry. However, she had a talent of maintaining authority with logic, sarcasm, and a look that Killian imagined could probably melt evil grandfather if he stood still long enough.

"Fine," Killian muttered.

His mother listened closely, even as she bustled around the fire and chopped vegetables. When Killian finished with a flourish, she turned to him thoughtfully.

"That was rather sinister," she observed. "Beautiful, but definitely... macabre."

"What's that?" Killian demanded.

"Creepy. Sinister."

Nodding thoughtfully, Killian said, "Good."

"Any particular inspiration?"

Killian nodded again. "Dead fish."

Christine choked, needing to cough before she could let out her musical laughter.

"Why don't we try something happier this time, love? Not that I didn't enjoy the waltz of the dead fish, but soon I shan't be able to look at our dinner the same way again."

Again, his mother's logic was sound, which caused Killian to play a lighter, bouncy waltz. Soon, Christine was humming along as she tended the vegetables over the fire. Her back was to the door, so she didn't see Edward and Liam come home, but Killian did. Edward put a finger to his lips and crept towards his wife. With a startled cry, Christine was swept into a dance with her husband, while Liam watched in disgust. They twirled around the room gracefully, in spite of the fact that Christine was still holding a dripping spoon. Once, when Edward twirled her away from him, she took a moment to lick the spoon, which caused the whole family to burst into laughter.

"Where did you learn that step, fair lady?" Edward chuckled.

"A dance academy of a far higher calibre than yours, I'm sure," Christine retorted.

Killian ended the waltz with a flourish, and Edward planted a kiss on his wife's hand.

"Thank you for the dance," he said, mock-solemnly.

"Oh, the pleasure was mine, sir, although dinner may now be cinders, and you smell horrific. Did you roll in the fish today? Or is it the new scent at court?" Christine's eyes glimmered with amusement.

"The latter, I assure you," Edward chuckled.

Killian interrupted them with a loud, dissonant chord on his violin.

"I want to try!" He demanded.

"Me too!" Liam added. "I want to make sure I remember the steps." He kept his expression uninterested, but Killian could tell that he was just pretending.

"But Mama is the only woman," Killian protested. "We can't _all_ dance with her."

"Edward would make a marvellous lady for you, Liam," Christine suggested. "I'll go with Killian, since he's just learning."

Liam grinned and nodded. Edward gave Christine a look of horror, but quickly smoothed his expression back into one of neutrality. "Dancing backwards can't be so difficult."

"We'll see about that," Christine challenged, mischief hiding - not very well - behind her own expression. "I'll need to talk Killian through the dance, so can you hum a waltz, Edward?"

Edward now made no attempt to hide his horror. "...alright."

Soon the air was filled with the tuneless humming of Edward's deep voice, which caused Christine to break off her explanations every few seconds to dissolve into laughter. Finally, once she was satisfied that her sons remembered the basic steps, the family started awkwardly dancing through the living room.

"For God's sake, Edward, just because you're not in tune doesn't mean you can't be in time," Christine giggled. "One, two, three, one, two, three..."

"It's hard to dance_ and_ hum," Edward protested.

"You just ended mid-phrase!" Christine chided, clearly enjoying her teasing. "Lead, Killian, don't let me lead," she added to her son, far more gently.

"Mama, can I switch partners?" Liam groaned, as Edward began dancing the wrong part once again.

"In a bit, love," Christine promised.

In the end, dinner was ashes, the house was filled with smoke, and Edward still hadn't sung a single note on pitch, but both Killian and Liam were proficient at the waltz. More importantly, it was one of the most enjoyable memories Killian had of his entire childhood.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Then, aside from dancing... fencing I already knew from the war, my father taught me some things about ships, and the rest should be self-explanatory," Killian finished.

"That's a lot of subjects," Emma observed.

"We had long days and only one day off per week," Killian explained.

"And your classmates?"

"All a few years younger than I, but a couple were good lads nonetheless. Most were from the upper classes, though, and acted unbearably entitled."

Emma frowned. She'd known people like that as well, and the memories weren't pleasant for her, either. "So you were onto a practical portion by the end of the year?"

"Aye, the rest was based on promotion by merit," confirmed Killian.

"Were you on your brother's ship?" Asked Emma.

Killian shook his head. "On a Captain Roger's ship."

Emma looked at him disbelievingly. "Like the _Jolly Roger_?"

"Well, partially. The name was also the name of the generic pirate flag, as I assume you're aware. However, it did also remind me of the man who got me to a rank that allowed me to become captain of my ship," Killian acknowledged, pulling out his flask in a silent toast and downing a swift swallow of rum.

"So, he was a happy kinda guy?" Emma asked, lips twitching in their effort to get into a smile.

"On the contrary," he replied as Emma swiped the flask from his hands and took a swallow herself. "He was a miserable bastard. Loved his whip as much as he loved his rules."

Emma looked at her companion sharply, wondering if he'd ever been on the receiving end. She decided she didn't want to know.

"Why on earth did you name your ship after him, then?" Demanded Emma.

"As I said, Swan, he allowed me to receive recognition and a significant promotion," Killian explained.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Anyone who surrenders will be keelhauled," Captain Roger roared to his crew as they were boarded by pirates.

No one doubted him.

The fighting was bloody but brief, with only one moment of any true consequence.

Killian was close to the captain when he heard him emit a roar of pain. He made quick work of his current foe before turning to see what had happened. Captain Roger was on his knees, hands around a bloody abdominal wound, as the pirate captain stood over him with his sword raised. Without thinking, Killian rushed over to meet the pirate's blade with his own. The pirate looked stunned for a moment, before baring his extremely rotten teeth and attacking the much younger man ferociously.

Blow was met by blow, and soon Killian felt sweat running down his face. His arms were slowly weakening, but he could tell that the pirate's were as well. The pirate had more experience, but he was also larger, older, and more exhausted. Killian knew that fatigue was often the death of a man in a fight; all he had to do was wait for the pirate to make a mistake.

Finally, the awaited mistake came, and the pirate's blade fell to the deck with a clang.

Killian raised his blade to the man's throat and pressed firmly. "Yield."

The pirate smiled, showing his rotten teeth once again, and shook his head slowly.

"This is your last chance, pirate. Yield," Killian repeated, pressing the blade slightly more firmly to the his tanned throat.

"Give up my honour to a boy, only to go to the gallows? I think not." The pirate sneered. "Death."

Killian nodded and slit his throat.

The battle was over quickly after that.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You needn't look so shocked, Swan," Killian commented. "We can't all be as idealistic as your parents and let our enemies live."

Emma nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed that Killian could read her so easily.

"So that caused you to be promoted?"

"That, and the death of Captain Roger's first mate."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Jones, the captain will see you now," the ship's medic told Killian gruffly.

After taking a deep breath, Killian walked into Roger's cabins. Killian was nervous, but hid it with straight posture and a smooth expression. Still, it took all of his years of etiquette training and a general acquiring of discipline to keep from retching from the scent of blood, sweat, and something else equally as nauseating in the captain's quarters.

"You asked to see me, Captain?" Killian prompted.

"Jones, get over here. Stop dithering about the doorway," Captain Roger barked.

"Yes, Captain," Killian intoned, walking swiftly to the bedside.

"Sit down at once. Looking up at you is making me nauseous," the captain ordered tersely.

"Yes, Captain," Killian repeated, sitting down stiffly in the chair, knowing how Captain Roger hated anything besides perfect posture.

"You saved my life, Jones," Captain Roger said in his businesslike manner, as though discussing the weather.

"Yes, Captain."

"I suppose you wanted a reward, is that why?"

"No, Captain."

He squinted at his young charge suspiciously. It took all of Killian's willpower and years of practice to remain still under his gaze.

"No, you didn't. You're not from noble blood, are you Jones?"

"No, Captain." Killian lied.

"That's what makes the difference. You don't want things handed to you. You believe in a good work ethic, don't you, Jones?" Captain Roger snorted and then winced.

"Permission to speak freely, Captain?"

"Aye," Roger growled.

"Without a captain, a ship is leaderless, and the success of the battle is compromised. There was no one to replace you, as Fallowfield had fallen. We would have scattered without your leadership and lost. In addition, I was close by, and it would have been dishonourable to let a man die while I could save him." Killian explained in a quick and efficient military clip. Captain Roger hated unnecessary speech.

"Ah, it was about good form and good foresight. An excellent combination," barked Captain Roger.

"Yes, Captain."

Roger squinted at him. "How old are you, Jones?"

"Twenty, Captain."

"Young, but I suppose your actions speak for themselves. How would you like to be a lieutenant, Jones?"

Killian blinked. "Captain?"

"I loathe repeating myself. Answer the bloody question. Will you put that head and good form of yours to good use?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Excellent. Dismissed, Jones."

"I wish you a smooth recovery, Captain," Killian said quickly.

"No prattle, or else I'll change my mind. A new rank won't save you from the cat o' nine tails, Jones, if you don't keep your bloody mouth shut. _Dismissed_." Captain Roger hissed.

Killian left as quickly as he could without fleeing. As soon as he was out of the room, he allowed a smile to spread across his face. He couldn't wait to tell Liam.

* * *

You'll have to forgive me if my naval knowledge (particularly about ranks) is off. I did my best, but I can't promise 100% accuracy. Here's hoping you all know as little about it as I do!

Again, sorry for the delay. Exams are over, and I'm finally back from traveling, so that should mean more frequent and regular updates. For those of you still reading this, thank you!


	24. Chapter 24

The Present

* * *

Emma woke up to the glare of the noonday sun through the leaves overhead. Based on the amount of rain that had leaked through them the night before, she was hardly surprised that the leaves were equally as ineffective at blocking the sun. Still, she didn't want to get up yet: her eyelids ached, her backside ached, her neck ached, her back ached. Really, everything that was possible to ache ached. She was never going to take beds or _showers_ for granted again. "The Enchanted Forest" had such a deceptive name. When she'd first heard it, she'd envisioned a happy, sunny wood with talking, fluffy bunnies. Somehow, she hadn't imagined insects, mud, or tree roots. She'd been here before, true, but it seemed she'd forgotten just how much fairytale land _sucked_.

With a groan, she rolled over to glance at her companion. She didn't think she'd made much noise, but, nonetheless, her movement caused the sleeping pirate beside her to stir and crack open an eyelid. She really wanted to know where the hell he bought his eyeliner, because it seemed as perfect as the day before. She doubted hers did. Maybe it was magical eyeliner?

"Good morning, love," he murmured, his lips quirking into a hint of a smile.

"I fell asleep," Emma groaned, feeling remarkably ashamed.

"To be fair, I was growing quite bored of the tale as well," he began, only to laugh quietly as Emma fixed a ferocious glare in his direction. "You needed your sleep, as did I. I didn't think I should wake you as we both need our strength for today. I apologize for failing to keep watch; I'm afraid I dozed off soon after you, although I suppose the danger was never very great in this part of the woods."

"How are you feeling?" Emma asked, guiltily remembering her companion's injury.

"Oh, I'm in tiptop shape, as ever," he replied with a crooked grin.

Emma eyed him doubtfully.

"I'm fine, Swan," he added more seriously. "And you?"

"Just wonderful," she said sarcastically, "considering I slept on a forest floor, and I'm stuck in another world _and_ time."

Smirking, Killian shook his head. "Are you always like this in the morning?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Emma muttered.

Killian gave her a slightly pained look that reminded her that she already knew the answer to that. However, he was back to his usual self only a second later.

"If only we'd engaged in more enjoyable activities last night, Swan. Then I'm sure you'd be much more eager to face the day," he purred.

Emma snorted. "Thanks, but I have a feeling that I have enough leaves and dirt down this stupid dress without taking it off."

Killian raised an eyebrow, amusement and perhaps a touch of hunger flitting across his face.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Emma asked, quickly changing the subject and moving herself into a seated position.

"I, for one, would like to be close to King Midas's castle so that we can get a sense of whether or not your mother succeeds and interfere, if need be," Killian said, stretching.

Emma nodded in agreement, making her best effort to not ogle her companion and failing. "How far is that?"

"If we make good time, we should make it by evening."

"Perfect. That should give you enough time to finish your story," Emma said firmly.

With a groan, Killian shook his head. "Gods, you're persistent."

"I want to know what happened," Emma shrugged.

"Perhaps you'll change your mind eventually. Two hundred years is a long time."

"I don't think I will."

Killian shot Emma a long-suffering look, but didn't argue.

"Shall we break our fast first, love?" He offered, fishing in one of his coat pockets and pulling out a small brown sack, from which he extracted bread and cheese.

Emma tried not to stare. "How big are your pockets?! And where did you get those?!"

"Last evening on my way out of the tavern," Killian said. "They were sitting on a table that was currently unoccupied."

She shot him an incredulous look, and he shrugged. "Pirate."

Perhaps Emma should have refused to eat stolen food, but her hunger outweighed her morals embarrassingly easily. She tried to ignore the smirk on Killian's face as she wolfed down her share of the meal.

After eating and taking care of any other needs, the pair set off through the forest once again.

"So, you came back and Ciarra was dead?" Emma prompted.

Killian shot her an amused look. "A fine effort, Swan, but no. However, my return did start a chain of events that would eventually lead to her death."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian had seen the castle from afar before. He had also heard it play a starring role in many of his mother and father's stories. However, actually being there was quite different than what he'd anticipated.

For one thing, he hadn't imagined how nice it would be. Somehow, neither of his parents had ever addressed the grandeur of the palace within their stories. From the outside, Killian guessed that the castle would be large and gaudy: a show of their king's power and wealth. That much was true, but he'd never realized the full extent of what that would mean.

His bed alone was large enough to fit at least five people, and so soft and comfortable that Killian felt like he was drowning whenever he laid down. He'd only succumbed to the temptation of jumping on it once, which was something he was very proud of. The dresser had enough room to fit every stitch of clothing his entire family had owned; one drawer was sufficient for his belongings. The mirror took up almost an entire wall, and the carpet was soft as a still lagoon. Killian took a moment to question his parents for wanting to ever leave this place and had to remind himself sternly that a nice home could hardly make up for the evil and corruption of its owner.

He shook his head at the thought. _You can't think like that, or at least show anyone that you think like that_, he told himself sternly. He had a feeling that such a thought wouldn't be very popular within the castle.

Still, there was nothing outwardly sinister about the place; as a child, Killian had imagined a dank, dark palace of stone, with even the flickering light of a thousand torches being insufficient to dispel the dark shadows.

Awe soon gave way to boredom, however. The room was really too big and too fancy and pathetically uninteresting. Killian really wanted to go and explore the castle but was uncertain of whether that was permissible. He doubted it.

In the end, he spent his evening composing. He wrote two pieces for string quartette and a dance suite by the time the moon had risen and was no less bored.

Then, he couldn't sleep because the bed was too soft and too large and too _squishy_. He found he missed his hard bunk in the crew's quarters of his ship and the gentle rocking of the vessel on the waves. Being on land after being out at sea for so long had him feeling like a caged animal.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"So you learned to like the navy after all?" Emma inquired. "Even though it wasn't your first choice?"

Killian nodded thoughtfully. "I had my reservations about the navy for various reasons. I didn't want to copy my brother or, worse, my father. I didn't want to leave my loved ones behind or stop writing music. Then, of course, there was my experience working on a ship as a boy when I worked my way back home after my father left, which wasn't exactly pleasant. However, if I'd ignored all of that, perhaps it would have been my first choice. I'd always had my own fascination with ships."

* * *

The Past - 1805

* * *

The fisherman currently hiring Edward was ill, which was what started the whole adventure. Well, that and Christine.

Christine always had a wistful look when she looked out to sea. In hindsight, Killian could think of several reasons why. Perhaps it was because she longed to escape the city and find a place that held less danger or bad memories. Perhaps it was because she grew up by the sea, if a very different sort of sea, where she'd spent much of her childhood swimming and sitting on the seashore. Or perhaps she was simply transfixed by the way the light danced on the waves; Christine had always noticed that sort of thing.

"I don't like the idea of you going out to sea all alone." Christine bit her lip as she looked up at her husband.

Edward chuckled. "I appreciate the sentiment, my love, but I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself. Besides, I shan't go too far. I could swim to shore if something went wrong, which it won't." He placed a gentle kiss to Christine's forehead, which made her scowl and swat him away.

"Don't talk to me in that condescending tone," she scolded, but Killian could tell she wasn't angry, just disappointed. "I was merely suggesting..." she trailed off, cheeks faintly flushed.

"Yes?" Prompted Edward, confused.

Christine sighed, shooting Killian and Liam an exasperated look that made them both laugh.

"Well, it's been so long since I've been on a ship," Christine prompted.

Realization dawned on Edward's face. "Why didn't you just say so?"

"Because I didn't want to seem horribly needy," Christine frowned.

"You're the least needy person I have ever met," Edward promised. "But you may be disappointed. It's not a ship, love. It's a glorified boat at best, with just enough room for the four of us, I imagine."

"That's fine," his wife said quickly, eyes lighting up. She stood on her toes to peck her husband on the lips. "Thank you, darling. I knew you'd catch on eventually."

That was how the four of them ended up on the small sailboat that reeked of fish. Liam had been on it before. Christine had been on other boats and ships before. It was Killian's first time on a boat, though, since his family didn't travel, and he was too young for Edward to take him to work alone yet.

Liam scampered excitedly onto the boat after his father, already monologuing about navy facts to a family that was only half-listening. Killian hesitated before getting on. The boat was bobbing around on the waves and looked very unsteady. How was he supposed to get on when it kept moving?

"Want a hand?" Offered Christine, attentive as ever to the needs of her children.

Killian stubbornly shook his head, took a deep breath, and took a giant step out onto the boat, stumbling a bit inside but staying upright. Christine nodded in approval before hiking up her skirts to reveal her favourite worn, black boots and stepping into the boat herself. Only then did Edward steer them away from the docks.

It took approximately thirty seconds for Killian to fall in love. Salty spray flew into his face and settled on his lips in the best first kiss a man could receive, and the wind soon had his already unruly hair blowing around. It was pleasant for someone with short hair, but Killian didn't envy Christine, whose hair was already escaping its pins to fly across her face and bounce around her shoulders.

Curiously, Killian leaned over the side to look into the beautiful turquoise water. It was amazingly clear and the boat created only small waves, which allowed him to see rock formations, coral, and multi-coloured fish swimming through everything. On top of it all was the reflection of soft clouds as they drifted through the sky. It was like a different world.

"Killian, you're throwing us off-balance," Liam told him in his usual superior tone, pulling him away.

Killian shrugged off Liam's hand and scampered to his mother, who was sitting at the front of the boat with her eyes shut.

"Can we come with Papa again?" He demanded.

"I'm not sure, love. I hope so. You like it?" Asked Christine with a smile.

Killian nodded rapidly. Being on a boat was so different from watching the sea from the shore, perhaps in the same way that watching a dance and dancing are such different experiences. He felt powerful, like he was a sea animal instead of a little boy. He felt like he was part of the ocean, and what's more powerful than that? The ocean could swallow whole ships and drown men alive, but only when it was in the mood. His mother was like that, Killian realized.

"I love it," he affirmed with relish. "I wish we could stay here forever."

All at once, sadness passed over his mother's face. "I do too, love."

Killian looked at his mother in concern, and, all at once, her expression was back to one of gentle serenity.

"Do you know why I love ships, Killian?"

Killian shook his head as Edward corrected "boats, if you're talking about this little thing."

"Boats," Christine agreed, with an amused nod to her husband. "I love them because they're so safe."

Liam looked at his mother skeptically. "No, they aren't, Mama. Do you know how many ships have sunk just in-"

"No, sweetheart, you misunderstand me. Yes, you're at the mercy of the ocean, but the ocean is so much kinder than men. Few people can touch you while you're on the water, and you can go most anywhere, or escape most anyone. Sailing is freedom."

The three boys on the boat nodded solemnly in agreement.

Years passed and Killian spent most of them on a ship, but he never forgot his mother's words, nor did they ever stop being true. If anything, they only became more true. Freedom, power, kindness, escape, safety; Killian may have gone on to live over two hundred years, but he believed his mother had obtained more wisdom by far within thirty.

* * *

The Past - 1820

* * *

Another morning of boredom was blessedly interrupted by a long-awaited knock.

"Come in," Killian called, hastily trying to straighten the desk now strewn with papers.

Liam strode in with a broad grin on his face, still smelling refreshingly of salt and fresh ocean air.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant," he beamed, pulling his brother into a firm hug.

Killian grinned in return. "Couldn't let you best me forever, could I?"

"If only mother and father were here. Do you think it would shock them to think I'd made an honest man out of you?"

"If anyone made an honest man out of me, it was me," protested Killian. "Besides, I only ever became dishonest after mother died, and I haven't stolen for years!"

The thought of ever stealing was now a strange one to him, considering how hard he'd worked, even before Liam found him, to be able to support himself. If anything, stealing was a long-forgotten child's game born of desperation. As soon as he'd discovered that he could make money with his violin, he'd stopped. He'd never even considered stealing again, particularly when it could land him in prison and leave Lyanna on her own. The fact that his brother would even bring it up was mildly offensive to the young lieutenant, but what else were elder brothers for if not to embarrass their younger siblings?

"Still, you've moved up in the world," Liam said, patting his brother on the back. "I'm proud of you, little brother."

"Younger," Killian corrected. "I'm hardly 'little', anymore."

Liam gave him a skeptical look. "You'll always be little to me," he teased. "Besides, you're shorter."

"Hardly," Killian retorted. He'd given up hope of outgrowing his brother, both in terms of height and width; his brother had the same broader build of their father while Killian clearly did not.

"And tonight is your first royal ball, is it not?" Liam ignored his brother with his usual ease.

"You know it is," Killian said with a shrug. Only higher-ranked men in the navy or army received invitations to the king's balls.

"A new, young lieutenant; you'll have to beat the women off with a stick," Liam remarked wryly.

"I'll direct them to you, brother," Killian retorted with a smirk. Liam still had no romantic attachment that Killian was aware of and teasing him about it was only fair turnabout.

"Nervous?"

"For the women? No, not everyone possesses the same fear of them as you."

Liam shot his brother an amused look. "I meant for the ball, as you well know."

"No," Killian lied. He could never tell Liam his fears of meeting the king, the queen that had replaced his aunt, or, worse, seeing his grandfather. That would involve telling Liam things that would surely hurt him. The only thing that kept Killian's own conscience clear while serving in the navy was the knowledge that he was helping to defend the kingdom's people and maintain peace. He served the people rather than the king, at least in his mind, and he certainly didn't serve Lord Alasdair.

He feared Lord Alasdair most of all. Still, the man hadn't seen him for nearly thirteen years. He wouldn't recognize his grandson from two brief encounters, would he? Surely not.

"Well, that's a shame. If I'd known you weren't nervous, I wouldn't have needed to go to the trouble of inviting your fiancée," Liam commented.

Killian started. "What?"

"I suppose I could un-invite her, but then she'd have to return the gown I bought her as an early wedding present, which would be a shame," Liam paused, turning to his brother and grinning like a little boy offered sweets. The sight of Killian's face wiped his grin right off, however. "What's wrong?"

Automatically, Killian pasted a grin onto his face. "Nothing, that's wonderful! Thank you, Liam."

Contrary to what Liam may have believed, Killian had deliberately planned to go to the ball without Ciarra. It was not a matter of embarrassment or financial restriction, but simply a precaution. If Lord Alasdair did recognize him, Killian certainly didn't want him knowing about his few remaining loved ones. Liam was unavoidable, but Ciarra could stay safe.

_Damn Liam and his good intentions_, Killian thought despairingly as his brother chattered about his latest voyage.

Ciarra arrived several hours later in a flurry of smiles and kisses. After a brief greeting, Liam made his excuses and left them alone.

"I've missed you," Ciarra confessed some time later, tracing patterns across his arm as she lay next to her fiancé in the still far too large bed.

"And I you," Killian assured her, planting a kiss in her now extremely messy hair. The downside of actually being in the navy rather than just school was how little he got to see Ciarra nowadays.

"Sometimes I worry that I'll forget your face," Ciarra whispered, running her lips gently over the object in question. "I've forgotten my parents' by now, and I think I just have this irrational fear that if I forget your face, I'll never see you again. It's silly, I know, but I can't help it. Sometimes I stay up for hours just to make sure that I remember every detail of it, even when I know that, realistically, it will do nothing to keep you safe."

"You don't need to. I'll always come back," Killian promised, although he felt his stomach drop as he remembered how well his similar promise to Lyanna had worked out. _You just need to stay alive while I'm gone_, he added silently, although he was unable to voice his fears. They sounded foolish enough in his head without saying them aloud.

As if sensing his change in mood, Ciarra responded by hungrily meeting his lips with her own in a kiss that spoke of a mutual need for each other.

After some time, Ciarra pulled away from her fiancé with a thoughtful expression.

"Tonight, I think we need to find Liam a wife," she decided.

Killian looked at her in amazement. When he realized that she was serious, he started laughing helplessly.

"Seriously! The poor boy is far too honourable to go to brothels like his friends, I'm certain. He clearly is incapable of succeeding romantically without our intervention," Ciarra insisted. "And the time is flying by. The poor man is almost thirty!"

"Not really," Killian protested. "Besides, men often marry older than women. He may be leaving things a little longer than many, but-"

"Killian, he needs our help," Ciarra insisted.

"I'm not certain that he would appreciate it, whether it's needed or not. Besides, perhaps he has a lover that we're simply unaware of."

"Nonsense," Ciarra clucked. "Besides, we shan't tell him of our intervention. All I'm suggesting is that we find some likely looking romantic partners and attempt to get them to talk to him. You know that Liam will be all official business. Getting him to flirt would be like asking the clouds to rain honey; it simply isn't done. He needs our assistance. We need to find a woman who is equally romantically inept, desperate, or else romantically skilled enough to be able to handle all romantic interactions single-handedly."

Killian felt his jaw dropping further and further throughout Ciarra's speech. "Perhaps you're not giving him enough credit-"

"I'm a woman; I know these things. Liam has been exceedingly kind to me, and I know you admire and love him above anyone else, regardless of what you'd have me believe. At least make a discrete attempt to help him, for his sake. I'm not suggesting that we find a woman and drag him to a church tonight, only that we try to help him along a bit."

With a sigh, Killian nodded. "Alright, but only on the condition that he never hears of this conversation, even if he ends up happily married as a result. You have to _swear_. He'd never get past the shame."

Ciarra nodded earnestly, trying and failing to conceal her obvious delight. Killian shook his head. He hadn't thought that it would be possible to dread the coming night any more than he already did, but clearly he was wrong. However, on the other hand, perhaps a distraction might actually be useful. At any rate, it would keep him from constant paranoia surrounding Lord Alasdair.

He sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"What?"

Emma turned to her companion feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Nothing."

"You're laughing."

"No, I'm not!"

"Aye, not now, but you were."

"I was just thinking... your brother and you were very different, weren't you?" Emma chuckled, still trying and failing to imagine any relation of Hook's who wasn't skilled in the area of romance. She'd never met anyone who flirted as much as Hook, and she'd always imagined that his brother would be much the same.

Killian grinned. "Aye, a little bit. My brother was far too career-oriented to focus on frivolities such as romance without a bit of assistance. He was fine at it once he actually tried."

Emma nodded, still amused.

"So you found him someone, then?"

With a grimace, Killian replied, "Not exactly."

"What does _that_ mean?" Emma protested.

"All in good time, Swan," Killian promised. "You asked to hear the whole story. I can hardly spoil something like this now."

"So, the ball?" Emma prompted impatiently.

Killian nodded. "Ah, yes..."


	25. Chapter 25

The Past

* * *

In the end, Killian was grateful to have Ciarra by his side as he attended the ball.

They dressed side by side, with Ciarra chattering away about everything from what sort of girl Liam might like to what sort of food might be served to worries that she might forget the dance steps. Killian half-listened, mostly watching in interest as she arranged her hair in a complicated braided bun and dabbed something dark red onto her lips. It filled him with nostalgia, reminding him of his mother's preparation for her opera roles. He'd never seen Ciarra bother so much with her appearance, but he supposed that was only because they'd spent most of their time together in the army, trekking, or working jobs that had no need of fancy appearances.

Ciarra grinned when she caught his gaze in the mirror.

"Where did you learn all of that?" Asked Killian in amazement, gesturing towards her head.

"I've had to do something to keep myself occupied while you've been away," she said, by way of explanation.

"I'm glad you've used your time so productively," Killian breathed, barely resisting the urge to kiss her neck.

All of Ciarra's attempts at appearances may have been destroyed if not for Liam's timely knock. Within moments, the three young adults were walking in their finery down towards the ballroom.

"We greet the king, first," explained Liam under his breath as they joined a small line.

Ciarra's grip on Killian's arm tightened painfully.

Finally, they were announced, and the trio entered a reception hall that was large and lavish enough to make Killian feel like he had been swallowed by some great beast. Hundreds of candles danced around the room and illuminated the crystals and jewels on the king's throne. The result was almost as if the king himself was radiating coloured light. It did little to compensate for his lack of pleasant physical attributes, however; his ears stuck out, an ash-coloured beard did little to compensate for a weak, shapeless chin, and his hair-line was already receding. No doubt tricks with light were needed to make King Julian appear to be a worthy and powerful monarch, since nothing about his person radiated worthiness or power.

Killian bowed low nonetheless. "Your grace."

King Julian stifled a yawn and waved the three away.

All in all, Killian decided that meeting the king had been quite anticlimactic. Relief poured through him. Half of him - the irrational half - had expected to be arrested on the spot.

"Lieutenant Jones!" A loud voice boomed from across the ballroom as the trio entered.

Both Killian and Liam turned their heads. Killian felt a moment of panic when he didn't recognize the uniformed man who had spoken, which soon receded as Liam strode towards the speaker with a broad grin.

His eyes were still fixed on Liam when Ciarra yanked his arm. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to keep him from colliding with a lavender-scented older man.

"Apologies, my lord," Killian said quickly, only to have his voice trail away at the sight of a familiar face.

Lord Alasdair sighed, reaching into his doublet to extract a lace handkerchief and wipe himself off, as though the collision had contaminated him somehow.

"I always imagined that spacial awareness would be of value on a ship," Lord Alasdair commented drily.

Killian bit back the sort of retort he wanted to give, and instead said, "I shall endeavour to improve that area of study, my lord."

Lord Alasdair now seemed to look at him for the first time. Killian felt his skin crawl as his grandfather's eyes raked over every inch of him. He could've sworn that the cold, grey eyes lingered for an unnatural amount of time on the scar that still stood out on his face, even if angry red had long ago faded to a slim line of white.

"The new Lieutenant Jones, I presume?" He finally said with a small smile that looked unnatural on such a cold, hard face.

"Yes, my lord," acknowledged Killian with a polite nod. "I apologize again for meeting you in such a manner."

Lord Alasdair nodded, his eyes now moving to Ciarra, who swallowed visibly under his scrutiny.

"And your companion?"

"Of course," Killian said hurriedly. "Allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Ciarra..." - he cursed inwardly, remembering that giving Ciarra's actual last name would link her to her late father - "um, Ciarra..." - words like "candle", "dress", "ball", "Jones", "Crewe", "pretty", and "help" flashed briefly through his mind - "Green."

Lord Alasdair raised his eyebrows and glanced again at Ciarra, whose dress happened to be layers and layers of fabric the colour of-

"Green," repeated Lord Alasdair.

"I like to colour coordinate," Ciarra said with a bright, nervous smile.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"I thought pirates were supposed to be good liars," teased Emma.

"I prefer to plan my lies in advance," Killian said, scratching behind his ear in his usual embarrassed tell.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"I apologize, my lord, I seem to be a bit tongue-tied in your presence. My brother has told me many things about the great Lord Alasdair-"

Ciarra let out a squeak and clapped her hands to her mouth. Both Killian and Lord Alasdair turned to look at her, one in despair and one in disdain.

"Oh... g-g-goodness. I d-d-didn't even realize. I've heard m-many wonderful things t-too," Ciarra babbled, looking at the man as a mouse may look at a cat right before becoming its dinner.

"I wonder," Lord Alasdair said softly, looking at them both in a way that made Killian's blood freeze in his veins. Then, abruptly, the strange smile was back on the old man's face. "Well, Lieutenant, I wish you both luck in your future endeavours. I hope that we shan't be disappointed in you."

"I'll do my best to ensure that you shan't, my lord," Killian assured him.

With a last stiff nod, Lord Alasdair moved away, leaving Killian and Ciarra frozen in place.

"Oh my soul," Ciarra muttered, fanning herself nervously with gloved hands. "That was-"

"I know," Killian replied, now feeling slightly ill.

"Oh God," she moaned.

"Let's not let it spoil the evening, hmm?" Killian suggested, gently leading her towards couples who were already dancing.

"Yes, you're right. He would've thought we were strange, I'm sure, but nothing else-"

"We can talk about it later," Killian said hurriedly, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

Ciarra nodded bravely, and soon the two were dancing stiffly among the graceful couples.

"Relax," Killian murmured in her ear, although he felt like a hypocrite saying so. "There's no point in worrying about it now. Who do you think Liam might like?"

His fiancée brightened almost immediately, scanning the packed room with obvious relish. "Her?"

"Where?"

"In white?"

Killian glanced to his right, where a tall red-head was dancing with an older man.

"Engaged, or soon-to-be."

"No!"

"Besides, look at that face. She's after that man - maybe his money? - but, either way, she's clearly far too flirtatious for Liam. He wouldn't know how to play her game."

"Huh," Ciarra said. "Well, then, that woman in the corner."

Killian looked and shook his head. "I said romantically inept, not... well..."

"Don't be cruel," Ciarra chided, hitting him lightly.

"Let's at least find someone somewhat pleasing to the eye? And not old enough to be his mother?"

Ciarra bit back a laugh. "Fine."

If anyone had watched the couple that night, they would have noticed that their dance pattern seemed to cover far more of the room than the other couples. Soon, they were circling around so that they could reach every corner and at least glance at every ball attendee.

"This is ridiculous," Ciarra finally laughed. "I feel like a vulture! I should have worn black."

"But you look so ravishing the way you are," Killian protested in amusement.

"There!" Ciarra jerked him to a stop suddenly, clearly forgetting that it was his job to lead the dance. Still, Killian decided that it would be bad form to point that out.

Killian glanced to the bench that Ciarra had loudly indicated, where two women sat. One had brown hair and dark eyes, with her nose buried in a book. She was petite and mousey, and, in Killian's opinion, rather uninteresting. The other was sitting next to her, looking bored out of her mind. She was of a more compatible height with Liam, with strong features, chestnut-coloured hair, and intelligent green eyes.

"She's a possibility," agreed Killian, already guiding Ciarra over to the two women.

"Good evening!" Ciarra said with a bright smile.

The mousey one with the book barely spared her a glance. The other one looked relieved to have someone speak to her at all.

"Good evening," she said in a deep, rich voice.

"We were hoping that you could help us with a problem we have," Ciarra blurted.

The mousey one looked up at her with a frown. "We're not the staff. Find a servant."

Her companion looked horrified. "Giselle!"

Giselle scowled. "There are plenty of them around."

"This isn't an issue that a servant can help us with," Killian cut in with his most charming smile.

Giselle was already reading again.

"You'll have to excuse my cousin. She knows that no man would ever dance with her, and so she buries her face in _books_ and is as uncivil as possible so that she can pretend there's a reason for _why_ she's all alone," the taller woman said with disdain.

"Better than sitting there pathetically like someone I know," Giselle commented pointedly.

Her companion's face started to turn red.

"Only because of _you_!"

Killian cleared his throat pointedly.

"Ladies, if you're in want of a dance partner, I may know just the man. My elder brother is currently unoccupied-"

"What's the matter with him?" Interrupted Giselle.

"What?" Asked her cousin in annoyance.

Giselle heaved a great sigh. "Clearly there's _something_ wrong with him. That girl mentioned a 'problem', and now they've conveniently forgotten the problem and turned the subject to his brother. This is all an excuse to set you up. If they have to go to all of this trouble, then there's clearly something wrong with him. What? Is he deformed? Stupid?"

"Neither, I assure you," Killian said, forcing a smile on his face while biting back his irritation. "My brother is just in need of a dancing partner and doesn't realize it."

"Asocial, then," Giselle said with a sniff.

Her cousin sidestepped rather desperately to block her. "Oh, yes, please. I should love to meet your brother. What's his name?"

"Liam," Ciarra told her cheerfully. "He's ever so nice."

"Liam," the girl repeated dreamily. "And you are?"

"Ciarra!" Ciarra gushed. "And this is Killian."

"Is he a _sailor_ like yourself?" Giselle questioned, leaning around her cousin's skirt. She said "sailor" as though it were a dirty word.

"He's a Lieutenant as well, yes," Killian replied stiffly.

"Oh, how exciting!" The taller girl said quickly. "I'm Beatrice."

"And I'm coming," Giselle cut in, standing up.

"No, you're not!" Beatrice shrieked.

"Yes, I am. I'd be fascinated to see how this goes. It could be quite amusing," Giselle said. "Shall we?"

Beatrice's mouth fell open in indignation. Finally, with a scowl, she nodded to Killian, who led the way to his brother. Ciarra trailed behind with Beatrice, cheerfully discussing all of Liam's attributes while Beatrice practically swooned, shooting angry looks at her cousin in between her gushing.

Liam was currently talking to Captain Roger and some other naval officers. His eyes lit up at the sight of his younger brother, although his expression quickly drifted to one of confusion as he took in the gaggle of women behind him. He excused himself and moved over with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Liam, allow me to introduce the Lady Beatrice," Killian said with a smile, then held his breath as she curtsied politely and Liam did a shallow bow.

"Do you like dancing, Lieutenant?" Asked Beatrice breathlessly.

After a moment of hesitation, Liam nodded. "At times, yes."

"Is this one of those times?" Beatrice prompted with a bright smile.

Liam hesitated again, and Killian elbowed him.

"Yes?" Liam said.

Beatrice grasped his arm, and they started to move towards the dancing couples in the center of the floor. Killian and Ciarra were exchanging triumphant glances when Liam caught sight of Giselle.

"Pardon me, but I don't believe we were introduced," he said, pulling Beatrice to a halt and causing her to huff in annoyance.

"I'm Giselle, the cousin of Beatrice," she said.

"May I ask what you're reading?" He asked, eyes fixed on the thick book still sitting in her hand.

"_The Prince_ by Machiavelli-"

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma stopped suddenly, causing Killian to crash into her.

"Hold on... Machiavelli? How on earth was that in your world?" Emma exclaimed. "Machiavelli was in _my_ world."

Killian looked at Emma in amazement, as though she'd just told him that people in her world had kangaroo legs, although maybe that wouldn't have actually surprised him, now that she thought of it. Maybe people in the Enchanted Forest actually did have kangaroo legs.

"He was a legendary figure in my world. We assumed 'Machiavelli' was a pseudonym of sorts, yet you tell me he was a real person in your world?"

"Yeah," Emma confirmed.

Killian shook his head, eyes wide. "Bloody hell..."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Liam's eyebrows raised almost to his hairline. "You're reading about political theory."

"It's fascinating," Giselle said slightly defensively, as though she were expecting harsh criticism. "And besides, it could be useful."

"Useful?!" Beatrice exclaimed, her voice going up several octaves. "I suppose that's what your _father_ said-"

"And now he's in prison. Yes, I know. Clearly, he did something wrong. That isn't how I would have done it." Giselle turned to Liam with a faint smile. "My father is in prison, awaiting execution for treason. He probably would have done well to have studied political theory a bit more."

Beatrice let out a wail at her words. "Did you have to say that?! You ruin _everything_."

"Wait a moment-" Liam began.

Before he could say anymore, Beatrice had taken off at a run towards the door, sobbing noisily. Killian and Ciarra exchanged stunned, despairing looks.

"Oh dear," Liam said, with an awkward look towards Giselle. "Did I... offend her somehow?"

"No, I did," Giselle said matter-of-factly. "She curses the day my father was arrested, because now I have to live with her family, and she has to spend time with me. Worse than that, no one wants to be around us once they realize that my father was a traitor. She likely assumed you'd be the same, although it was quite dense of her to not wait around and find out."

"I admit I was surprised to see such a beautiful woman without a partner," Liam commented, fidgeting slightly.

"Yes, I imagine she's used to hundreds of partners a night," Giselle said drily.

Liam looked at her in surprise. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I meant you."

Giselle took a step backwards in surprise. "Me?"

She wasn't the only shocked one. Ciarra let out a little gasp, then quickly covered her mouth and turned away to pretend she hadn't been listening. Killian could only stare blankly at his brother and then at Giselle, briefly wondering if his brother had lost his mind. Giselle was a stunted little woman, probably just barely five feet. Her hair was a dark, dull brown, her face a mass of freckles on top of a beaky nose and lips that were too thick for her face. All of her features seemed too large, really, especially for such a tiny woman. The only attractive thing Killian could see (if he squinted) was her pair of intelligent, dark eyes. As for the rest of her, she was of a fairly average build for her size with a fairly boyish figure; her shapely lavender-coloured dress could only deceive the eye so much.

"I apologize if I offended you," Liam backtracked quickly, misinterpreting Giselle's response entirely. "I tend to converse quite bluntly, a habit from the navy, I suppose."

"Bluntness can be dangerous," Giselle observed with a sniff. "But at least it shows that you're an honest soul. I prefer that to a liar. This whole castle reeks of deception."

"Doesn't Machiavelli claim that deception is necessary for successful politics?" Queried Liam.

Giselle's cautious expression turned much brighter. "You've read it? Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Very," agreed Liam, leading her towards a bench and leaving a stunned Killian and Ciarra behind.

"...success?" Questioned Ciarra eventually.

Killian shook his head. "I suppose?"

After a pause, the two burst into quiet giggles.

"Come, Ciarra, let me introduce you to my captain..."

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You didn't like her," Emma observed.

"Giselle? I was willing to give her a chance if Liam liked her. No, my dislike of her developed over time," Killian explained, eyes darkening slightly.

"Why? Because she intimidated you?" Teased Emma.

"Because she was a murderer," growled Killian.

* * *

Unfortunately, my internet at the moment is a bit defective, which makes it hard to upload chapters. Anyway, because of that, I think I'll split this one into two! It seems to have more trouble sharing larger documents. Anyway, expect two tonight!


	26. Chapter 26

The Past

* * *

Killian and Ciarra spent one last night together on the night of the ball.

"As much as I loved your dress," Killian whispered into Ciarra's neck as she squirmed, "I think I love you out of it even more-"

* * *

The Present

* * *

"This sounds much more like you," Emma said, rolling her eyes. "Although that is a _terrible_ cliché."

"This was two hundred years ago, Swan. If it's a cliché, it's because others copied _me_."

He had a point. The thought made Emma's head spin.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The last time Killian saw her alive, though, was a brief afternoon in the spring of 1821. It was a cold and rainy day, the sort that turned the entire city from a tapestry of colours to a blank slate of grey.

He mostly remembered how stressed she appeared that day; she was nearly twenty one, but she looked so exhausted that she appeared much older. She'd lost weight, as well, and almost cried when she saw Killian, burying her face in his neck for several long moments when he came through the door. She looked nervous, continually glancing out the window and jumping at even small noises.

When Liam and Giselle arrived, the knock at the door had her on her feet in an instant. At Killian's questioning glance, she just shook her head.

Later, as they all sat around the small fire in the hearth, Liam brought up Killian and Ciarra's wedding.

"We're hoping to marry this summer," Killian confirmed with a wide grin.

"That's brilliant, brother," Liam told him, accompanied by a hearty pat on his back. "Congratulations, you two."

Ciarra's eyes remained fixed on the wall as though she hadn't registered his words.

"Ciarra?" Prompted Giselle.

She jumped almost a foot in the air. "Hmm?"

"Are you alright?" Asked Liam in concern.

"Oh, yes, fine, just a bit... distracted," Ciarra muttered, smiling briefly.

"I'm sure it's just a side-effect," Giselle shrugged.

"Of?" Demanded Killian, alarmed.

Giselle looked at him pityingly. "Pregnancy, of course."

Killian let out a strangled gasp as everything else in the room fell deathly quiet.

"What?"

"Oh, Ciarra, don't tell me you didn't tell him yet!" Giselle chided.

"Ciarra?" Killian prompted.

Ciarra shook her head rapidly, before running to the bedroom in tears. With a quick apology, Killian rushed after her. Hesitantly, as though approaching a wild animal, Killian moved towards her. When she didn't shout at him, he gently pulled her against his chest and let her cry.

"I'm s-sorry," she sobbed.

"No need to apologize, love," he told her, rubbing circles into her back. "Do you want to talk about it? Are you upset about us... having a child?"

Saying the words out loud filled Killian's stomach with butterflies. Somehow, he couldn't help but picture another Lyanna, although he knew it was ridiculous; it wasn't like his baby would be Lyanna reborn. But it would be a child like Lyanna, with her innocence and nothing to ruin it, like unloving mothers and alcoholic, violent fathers. He could picture the future so clearly that he could almost cry himself, but out of happiness.

"No, no, I'm just so... frightened," whimpered Ciarra.

"To have a family?" A thrill went through Killian at the word.

Ciarra shook her head but didn't elaborate.

"I'll leave the navy so I can be with you," Killian offered. "You won't have to go through this alone. I'll take care of you."

"No!" Ciarra blurted, looking panicked.

Killian tried to hide his hurt. "What?"

"We'll... need the money now. More than ever," Ciarra offered weakly.

"But-"

"I'm sorry, Killian. This is all j-just... pregnancy moods. I honestly c-couldn't say why I'm crying when I'm so happy."

Killian wanted to believe her, and so he did. It was a mistake he never forgave himself for.

When Ciarra had calmed down, Killian grasped her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before gently leading her back to the others.

"... sounds like a difficult position, but I imagine that you're more than capable," Liam was saying.

He smiled warmly at Ciarra as she sat down. Ciarra managed only the weakest of smiles in return.

"What are you talking about?" Killian asked, sitting down next to fiancée with a smile.

"Giselle's moving up in the world, little brother," Liam explained. "She's getting higher and higher positions at court. She could be helping to make our laws soon."

"That's wonderful news!" Killian said brightly, and he meant it. He would never say no to having someone on their side within the castle.

"Yes, it is," Giselle agreed (modesty was never her strongest suit). "I've worked hard to get here, I assure you. I've had to work twice as hard as any man, anyway."

"It goes to show that you're twice as capable, darling," Liam shrugged. "I'm not surprised that you're starting to succeed. Perhaps you can weed out some of those deceivers you despise so much."

"If I do so, it shall only be through deceit," she said plainly, eyes sharp. "Does that make me terribly wicked, Liam? Although, if it does, I can't say that I care."

"You could never be wicked," Liam promised, smiling at her fondly. "Not if your intentions are good, surely."

His brother and his partner left soon afterwards. Giselle paused at the door, though, and handed Ciarra a letter.

"Some pregnancy congratulations," she said in answer to Killian's questioning look.

Killian stupidly believed her. Even more stupidly, he allowed Ciarra to send him back to his ship the next day.

"I'll come as soon as I can. Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" Killian asked, tenderly brushing a stray hair from Ciarra's forehead.

She nodded, although her lip trembled. "I want you to stay more than anything, but you can't. It's important that you go."

Then, with a wobbly smile, she gave him a long, loving kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too. More than anything," Killian promised.

He waved goodbye once more before turning the corner down to the docks. Ciarra blew him a kiss.

Killian left with happy hopes for the future of wife and child, and he saw them in every ocean wave, constellation, and drifting cloud. This voyage was a short one, and the thought of what awaited him upon his return kept a spring in his step, even when the deck bucked and rolled under the assault of the odd ocean storm.

When he arrived back in the city several months later, he sprinted back to his and Ciarra's house, ready to take her in his arms, kiss her belly, and rejoice in the turn his life had taken.

The sunset shone blindingly through the door when Killian threw it open.

"Ciarra!" He called.

His voice echoed through the house without a response. Killian's grin faded.

"Ciarra?" He shouted again.

No response came to meet his ears, and Killian felt his skin flush in fear. Following some hidden sense he didn't even realize he possessed, he half-ran to the bedroom and threw open the door. Light poured in, illuminating a scene that sent him to his knees with a staggering, blinding sense of déjà vu. The light illuminated his fiancée like a beacon, hanging from the ceiling by her neck and swaying gently with the breeze. A small puddle of urine was on the floor reflecting her image, a foot below where her feet dangled.

"No, no, no," Killian muttered, running his hands through his hair. He felt as though he was in a nightmare, and, if he wished hard enough, he might come back to reality.

After some time, in which his breathing quickened and grew increasingly harsh and loud in the small room, Killian looked at the image again. She was still there, her dark eyes reflecting the setting sun and his own horrified face.

Trembling, Killian got a chair from the kitchen and pulled his fiancée down. She had been showing that she was with child when she hanged herself. He ran a shaking hand over her belly, half-expecting to feel something moving, but it was as dead as its mother.

He cradled her, as he'd hoped to cradle their child, rocking back and forth and sobbing into her hair. Her skin was cold.

"Come back," he sobbed. "Please, come back."

It was only when he really looked that he saw the note tucked into her skirt. With a frown, he opened it and read it. As he read it, his tears stopped, and purpose filled him.

Gently, he carried Ciarra to their bed and put her down. After a moment of hesitation, he pressed his lips against hers. He regretted it almost instantly and recoiled in horror; they were cold and clammy. He didn't know what he'd expected to happen, but somehow his brain was working too slowly through denial and pain to remember that dead people did not have warm, pliable lips.

Then, he went to Liam.

* * *

Liam got him tea and left to make arrangements for the burial. Again, Killian was struck with a sense of déjà vu. Never had he been more thankful for his brother, nor for the fact that his brother was currently in the city instead of on a ship. He lit a fire and sat by it, waiting for the numbness to leave his bones.

When the door opened, he stiffened.

"Liam?" Called Giselle, the true person he had been waiting for.

Softly as a cat on the prowl, Killian got to his feet and drew his knife.

"Liam? Where-"

She cut herself off with a strangled yell as the knife touched her throat.

"Explain this to me!" Killian hissed, shaking the note in front of Giselle's face.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"What was the note?" Inquired Emma softly.

With a sigh, Killian stopped and buried his hand once more in his unending pockets. From the same place as Lyanna's picture, he gently extracted a yellowed, faded, and slightly ripped piece of paper.

Emma took it hesitantly. It read:

_My dear Killian,_

_I hope that you don't hate me, although I find it hard to imagine that you could still love me after this, even if I do explain why I had to kill myself. _

_It started at the night of the ball, when we ran into Lord Alasdair. Do you remember how he stared at us? Well, he somehow knew your identity and started threatening me soon afterwards. I think he's been threatening Giselle as well, which is also why I write you this. I am not a wholly selfish person desiring to redeem myself in your eyes. _

_You see, my love, Lord Alasdair wants you dead... both you and Liam. He knew the easiest way, and perhaps the most painful for you, would be to blackmail someone close to you into doing it for him. In this case, it was me. He has been threatening me for months, demanding that I kill you and threatening to come and torture you in front of me before killing us all if I didn't. I was left with an unthinkable choice, which left this as my only option. I couldn't kill you, my love, no more than I could watch you die. That is why I have to do this, you understand. Beyond that, I know that Lord Alasdair would discover our child and not rest until he or she was dead. I could never live with myself if I killed you and our child. _

_Please send Giselle my sincerest thanks. I know that she was forced to deliver Lord Alasdair's notes to me, which couldn't have been pleasant. She has been so kind to me during the most difficult of times. _

_I'm sorry that this was the only solution. I send you all of the love I possess, as always._

_Ciarra_

It took a moment for Emma to decide what to say. Finally, she settled with, "wow."

Killian nodded, jaw clenched.

"I'm so sorry-" Emma began, gut clenching at the thought of Killian losing his fiancée and child in one fell swoop.

Killian just shook his head. "No need, Swan. I've had many years to come to terms with it." His voice was gravelly to the point where Emma just wanted to shake him until he cried and released the emotions that were still so obviously hurting him. However, she just nodded at him to continue and passed him the offending note.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Giselle noticeably paled.

"I am not so stupid as you might like to think," Killian snarled. "I can see a connection between being the bearer of blackmail and countless consecutive promotions."

"Get off of me, Killian. I'm not going to explain while you have a knife pulled on me," Giselle said coolly.

"You will if you don't want me to slit your throat," Killian threatened.

"You won't. Liam would never forgive you," Giselle promised confidently.

After a moment of hesitation, Killian let his shaking hand fall to his side. "He will once he sees the note," he panted.

"Are you certain?"

Killian scowled, acknowledging her victory. "Explain."

Giselle sighed and sat down primly in one of Liam's chairs. "I swear that I didn't mean to harm her. Ciarra was right; I was blackmailed too. Lord Alasdair notices everything. He's like a puppeteer who knows exactly what strings to pull to get what he wants."

"Ciarra is dead because of you," Killian hissed.

For the first time, Giselle's icy facade cracked and she winced.

"It was unintentional. I didn't know the nature of the blackmail I was carrying. I only knew that my life was threatened if I disagreed, and my prospects were secure if I carried the letters. You're right, carrying them did help me to move up in the political sphere. I only became aware that something was wrong several months later, when Ciarra confided in me the nature of the letters. That was when I realized that Lord Alasdair wanted you two dead.

"I confronted Lord Alasdair that night. We negotiated. I would continue to help him kill you. In return, he would let Liam live and get him and me on the throne. I assumed Ciarra would live, and, of course, she and the baby would be well taken care of once I was on the throne-"

"He only wants me dead? Why?" Killian demanded.

"Liam seems more... manageable, I suppose. His loyalties are clearer. But you would never work for Lord Alasdair, would you?"

"Nor would Liam, if he knew what he had done!" Killian growled.

"But he doesn't. You didn't tell him. That's the reason he's not yet dead. That and me." Giselle said.

"You? You just want to use him to get on the throne!" Killian shouted.

Giselle's eyes flashed. "That's a lie. I loved him before I knew, and I love him still. This is a matter of convenience, Killian: politics. Besides, you must know where my loyalties truly lie if I'm telling you this. I don't want to hurt you or Liam. I never wanted to hurt Ciarra, either. How was I to know that she would take the coward's way out?"

With a cry, Killian pressed his knife against her throat once again. "Never call her that!"

"A coward? Killian, she was. Why else would you be so angry? She _left_ you. She killed your child!"

"Shut up!" Killian hissed, yanking her hair back to expose more of her neck.

"Don't do something you'll regret. I'm on the inside, Killian. Lord Alasdair trusts me. I can convince him to spare your life. I was hoping to, if I'd had more time and Ciarra hadn't made such a rash decision. You need me alive," her voice was growing more panicked with every word.

Finally, with a shout of anger, Killian released her. She fell to the floor in a heap of purple cloth, rubbing her neck nervously.

"I do. But I'll never forgive you this. And if I get even the slightest hint that you're working against us again, I will kill you without hesitation. I swear it," Killian promised in a hard voice.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You let her go," Emma said in surprise.

"I did," Killian confirmed. He did not look proud of it.

But it did confirm what Emma had come to realize; Killian had not been born with an inherent desire for revenge. Only time and bitter loss had given it to him. He could have been like her parents if his life had turned out differently.

It was a strange thought.

* * *

The Past

* * *

When Liam came back through the door, Killian and Giselle were sitting in silence, drinking tea.

"She'll be buried tomorrow," Liam told Killian quietly. "I'm so sorry, brother."

"So am I, truly," Giselle said in her usual calm voice. Killian would've sworn previously that she was being sincere. He wasn't sure of anything, anymore.

"At least-" Killian's voice broke, and he had to begin again. "At least I have you, Liam. I'm so grateful. Thank you."

"Of course," Liam told him, squeezing his shoulders gently. "And you always will. And Giselle too, right, Giselle?"

Giselle nodded, her face blank.

Killian laughed humourlessly. "Yes, Giselle too. Thank God for that."


	27. Chapter 27

This chapter contains a lot of mature material (as usual, nothing graphic) and some swearing. Read, review, and enjoy. :)

(Like, actually... I braved the rain and mosquitoes to get a better internet connection today, and, because the internet still sucked, posted this line by line because I love you guys. The one downside to that for you is that I really did not have the patience to edit, so please excuse anything that's a bit messy.)

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Killian, I have a present for you!" Liam's voice boomed through their small rented flat.

With a groan, Killian leaned his head back against the seat of one of their living room chairs.

Several months had passed since Ciarra's death. In that short amount of time, much had changed. One more of Killian's relatives and loved ones was now buried under the cold dirt of the graveyard Killian had slept in nearly fourteen years ago. At least Ciarra was now with her parents, and, if there was no afterlife, at least she could sleep happily nestled between Gavin and Sari's graves. Killian had moved in with Liam, unable to stand the thought of returning to the home he might have had with Ciarra and their child. Giselle had moved in as well, which, while annoying, at least allowed Killian to keep an eye on her. He had turned twenty-one. He had also more or less stopped shaving, unable to find the motivation to even do such a small thing. Instead, he sat in Liam's flat like a madman, composing throughout the day and often the night.

He knew Liam worried about him, but found that he was unable to find the motivation to change his ways. Just getting through the day was too difficult, and sometimes it felt like his music was his one tenuous tie with sanity.

Liam, while concerned, understood that he was grieving and gave him time. Giselle was another matter entirely.

"Killian, it's high time you got on with your life," she snapped one night, when she woke up to relieve herself and found him frantically scribbling away by candlelight. "She's not coming back. Accept it and move on. Don't just sit here like some sort of phantom and ruin _our_ lives."

"You have no right," Killian said coldly, "to make any comment about my current state. If it wasn't for you, Ciarra would still be alive."

In the dim candlelight combined with the pale moonlight from the window, Giselle looked deceptively unearthly; her white silk nightgown seemed to glow. If only she _were _a ghost, rather than a murderer living under the same roof as him. "I may have contributed to ending Ciarra's life, but you're the only one who's ruining yours," Giselle told him firmly.

"I'm being perfectly productive," Killian muttered, not even lifting his head. "What on earth is so ruinous about composing?"

Giselle gave him a dirty look. "You have no idea how often I'm beginning to wish that Ciarra had just pushed her conscience aside and offed you."

"At least we can agree on something," Killian retorted.

With a final scowl, Giselle turned up her nose and turned back to the bedroom. Her hand paused on the door handle, though.

"I didn't mean that."

"I did."

"I know," she sighed. "And I _am_ sorry, Killian... you know it was an accident."

"Accident or not, she's still dead." It was funny how the words didn't even seem to affect him anymore. It had become the center of his existence, a mantra that pulsed through him with every beat of his heart. _She's dead_. _She's dead_.

Perhaps that was why Liam's "surprise" meant so little to him initially.

"Didn't you hear me, brother? I have a surprise for you."

Killian grunted, eyes still focused on his manuscript. _She's dead. She's dead_.

"It will involve you leaving the flat," Liam continued. "I think you'll find it worth the trouble, though."

Killian doubted it.

Nothing really seemed worth the trouble anymore.

It seemed that this death, finally, after all of the others, had become too much. Or rather, these deaths. He hadn't forgotten about the child.

The truth was, he _was_ angry. At least some of the time. Ciarra had chosen to leave. She had chosen to take her life - and their child's - without consulting him. She had chosen him to live. She had taken the easy way out. She had quit, rather than trying to find a solution, rather than telling him the problem, rather than trusting that they could get out of it together. She had given up. She had killed their child.

Other times, he felt guilty for being angry. She had given up her life - and their child's - for him, after all.

Then, he just felt sad. She had given up her life, as well as their child's. He would never get to meet his child, to teach him or her to walk and talk and play the violin. He would never gather him or her onto his knee, tickle the child senseless, or tell the child about his own parents. He would never be kept up all night by the child's wailing. He would never spend hours rocking him or her to sleep. He would never crawl into bed in the early hours of the morning next to his beautiful, loving wife, and kiss her on the cheek without waking her, mindful of her own exhaustion. So, really, what was the point now? He'd lost the product of months or even years of dreaming and hoping, and the result was a horrifying emptiness that Killian didn't think could ever be filled.

"Liam, give me my papers back," Killian growled as his brother pulled them away from his hands.

"You might have to shave, or at least tame that growth on your face-"

"I'm not going out," Killian insisted, yanking his music manuscripts back.

"It will be just you and me," Liam added, as though offering a particularly tempting part of the bargain.

As if he would even consider going out if Giselle was coming. The thought made him sick.

Killian scowled. "No."

Liam's face fell. "Please, Killian? For me? It's my birthday."

If Killian could care, he might have felt guilty for forgetting. "Why the bloody hell are you giving me a present on _your_ birthday?"

"Because seeing my brother out of the house and having the chance to see him happy for the first time in months would be the best present I could receive," Liam told him matter-of-factly.

With a sigh, Killian looked into his brother's blue eyes. His face was fairly stoic, but his eyes were pleading. Killian knew these past months had been difficult for his brother as well. Perhaps he did owe him this.

"I can leave the house, but I can't promise to be happy," he said quietly.

Liam wrapped him in a hug. "That's a start."

That was how Killian ended up on the roof of an abandoned house in the middle of bloody winter, freezing his bloody face off.

"Champagne?" Offered Liam, pouring two glasses with a flourish. He fumbled one, and it fell off of the roof, crashing loudly on the stones below. The brothers watched it smash into millions of pieces that caught the cold starlight above them and reflected it just as coldly back. Killian considered teasing Liam about being so foolish as to bring something made of glass onto a roof (glass was ridiculously expensive in their land), but decided that it was too much effort.

"Well, I suppose it _is _my birthday," Liam joked, taking a swig from the bottle.

"What are we doing here, Liam?" Killian demanded, taking a drink from his own glass in an attempt to drive away the chill.

"We're right next to a performance venue, brother. I thought a musician and composer such as yourself might enjoy tonight's program."

Killian stared at his brother in disbelief. "You took me here to listen to a few amateur musicians torture their instruments? Why? Just tell me what they're playing. I assure you that it will sound much better in my head."

"Just wait. I think it will be worth it," Liam told him with a grin.

In the end, it was. Killian recognized the piece from the first bar.

"This is mine."

Liam nodded, taking another swig from the bottle. "It is."

Killian turned to his brother in amazement. "How did they-"

"Shh. I brought you all the way to this bloody rooftop, so you'd better damn well listen."

And he did. It was a piece for strings that he'd named "Sunrise". He'd written it for that day long ago in the woods, after Ciarra had nearly died, when he watched the dawn sunlight creep slowly along her face and marveled for one of the first times at how beautiful she was. It built slowly, before unfolding in a painfully beautiful climax, where it sat in its full glory for some time before fading out once again.

Then, for the first time since Killian had found Ciarra's suicide note, he allowed himself to cry. Tears slid down his face, catching in his now-much-shorter facial hair before dropping to the frosty roof.

It felt amazing.

"Thank you," Killian said thickly as it ended.

Liam smiled in response, refilling Killian's glass.

"A toast! To my brother the great composer, and to the champagne that my brother's composition purchased! And, of course, to new beginnings!"

Killian chuckled and tapped his glass against the bottle as the next composition began. The two brothers drank heartily, and, for the first time in months, Killian felt a little bit hopeful.

Of course, he shouldn't have, but he had no way of knowing that.

The next day, he bought a wreath from a street vendor and visited Ciarra's grave for the first time since she'd been buried. It was covered in a light dusting of snow that sparkled in the morning light. He said a soft prayer for the woman the headstone remembered and the child that was offered no memorial. Then, he said goodbye to them both.

Liam stayed by his side the whole time.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Liam was a good brother, wasn't he?" Emma voiced her thoughts softly.

"He was the very best," agreed Killian with a small smile. "He would have fit in well with you hero-types."

"You loved him very much."

"Aye," agreed Killian. "He was more than a brother to me; he was a best friend, a mentor, sometimes even a father. He always tried to do what was best for me, and he always seemed to know exactly what I needed."

Emma filled in the words that he left unsaid: _I miss him_. She wanted to touch him, to comfort him... but that would be cruel, in a way. She didn't want to lead him on when she was going back to New York. Instead, she shot him a sympathetic look that caused him to look away in discomfort and clear his throat.

"Anyway, it had been a long time since I'd heard one of my compositions outside of my head," he said quickly.

"And the first time you heard it played by more than you?"

With a shake of his head, Killian said, "no, not exactly."

"Oh, yeah, you said that you sang some of your compositions with friends in the army," Emma filled in. "And your mom probably sang some of your compositions."

"She did. And my uncle owned a theatre, don't forget."

Emma stared. "He played your compositions? You didn't mention that," she said accusingly.

"I can't mention _everything_, Swan. We'd need to go back in time further to have time for that," he teased. "Besides, _he_ didn't play them. He merely observed that I had a talent for composition-"

"How?" Emma asked.

* * *

The Past - 1809

* * *

"My violinist died."

Connor's voice was murderous as he came through the door. Killian wouldn't have been surprised if his uncle had killed the poor musician. Helena and Killian scattered to the furthest reaches of the room accordingly.

"How?" Demanded Helena cautiously.

"He was a deserter," Connor said with disdain. "Boiled alive."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian caught sight of Emma's face and his lips quirked.

"King Julian had no tolerance for deserters. As soon as he became king, he implemented the worst possible punishment for them. Most would rather risk death in the field of battle or on the sea rather than face that fate."

"That is actually sickening," Emma said.

* * *

The Past - 1809

* * *

"Boy."

Killian jumped.

"You read music, yes?"

He nodded.

"You're coming with me. Might as well put you to use."

After a moment of hesitation that had Connor already moving toward him threateningly, Killian hurried toward the door.

That was how he found himself in his uncle's somewhat rundown and smelly theatre among five to ten other musicians who eyed him suspiciously until he picked up his bow and played every note perfectly. Or, at least until a song for mezzo, bass, and soprano in the second act.

"What is it, boy? Are you sleeping? We open tonight. We can't afford to have you missing entrances," snapped the cellist.

"This doesn't work," Killian declared in disgust. "It sounds awful."

"_What_?" Roared Uncle Connor.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You didn't!" Emma exclaimed.

Killian shot her dirty look. "It was absolute garbage, Swan. It's still burned into my mind."

Maybe it was her imagination, but Emma could swear that he shuddered. Emma shook her head, trying her best to hide her amusement.

* * *

The Past - 1809

* * *

"It's the most simplistic piece of music I've ever heard. I could've written better at the age of four." He had, but he didn't add that part. "Isn't this supposed to be the climax of the whole opera?" Killian added quickly. "What if we-"

By that point, Connor had reached him and had a chokehold around his neck.

"Not another word," he snapped.

The second he was released, Killian stepped out of reach. "What if one of the singers sang a countermelody? Or we played one? Or-"

Connor took a step towards him, but Killian dodged.

"Uncle, you have to admit that it sounds horrible," Killian added, now slightly desperately.

His uncle had now reached him, as had the back of his hand.

"He has to be able to play, remember," the oboe player remarked in concern.

Reluctantly, Connor stopped. "Just play the bloody music," he snapped.

With a scowl and a bloody nose, Killian went back to his violin. He played his own counter-melody.

That night, after the opera, Connor took off his belt and gave Killian a very long and painful beating.

"This," he grunted. "Is for disobeying."

Killian curled in a ball on the floor, wincing with each strike. When Uncle Connor was finished, Killian cautiously lifted his head to see his uncle eyeing him thoughtfully.

"You write music," Connor stated. "Lots of it. I've seen all those scribbles of yours."

With a groan, Killian gave a small, jerky nod.

"The other musicians think you have talent," he added, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I'm going to bring one of those scribbles to them. If they think it's decent, you'll write for me."

"Or?" Killian said mutinously.

Uncle Connor gave him one last strike that made him yelp in pain. "Or you'll be out on the streets, you little bastard."

And that was how Killian started regularly writing for his uncle's theatre.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"He wanted me to play sometimes, as well, when he needed another violin. He even tried to get me to sing, but I put my foot down there," Killian added with a frown. "He could find other little boys; singing was my mother's talent."

Emma didn't even want to know what the consequences of refusing were. "Was it worth it?" She asked instead.

The old pirate nodded. "It was something I was unwilling to touch; it was hers. Doing it would feel wrong, like I was infringing on something holy, or like I was stealing from her."

And Emma understood, in a way. In fact, maybe that was the real reason she'd kept the name "Swan"; to steal from the people who had wronged her by taking something that was inherently theirs.

"So, what happened next?" Emma changed the subject. "After Ciarra died, I mean."

"Well, then my brother died," Killian said with a shrug of faked nonchalance.

Emma felt a twinge of sympathy. What must it be like to measure your life with the deaths of your loved ones? She had a feeling that Killian had stopped counting years long ago, and instead thought of his life in terms of who was still alive, just as she had once measured her life in terms of what foster family she was with. Still, she felt almost selfish when she made that comparison.

* * *

The Past - 1822

* * *

Only a few months later, the kingdom was at war once again.

This time it was with the Southern Isles, Christine's childhood home. King Julian had wanted more land, and the islanders, much to his surprise, were unwilling to be annexed without a fight. Or rather, they proved to be a much more worthy foe than the king had anticipated.

Therefore, when Killian and Liam were summoned to the palace, neither were particularly surprised. Liam was called in first, while Killian waited in the hall outside of Lord Alasdair's study. His brother came out with self-assured grin. Killian wished that he could feel so confident walking in.

The wave of lavender that assaulted his nostrils as he walked through the door almost made him retch. Instead, he clenched his jaw and saluted.

"Sit down, Lieutenant _Jones_," Lord Alasdair drawled.

Killian sat down stiffly in front of the man who was responsible for the deaths of at least half of his family.

"Captain Jones named you as his second-in-command without hesitation," he stated, folding his hands together into a steeple.

"My Lord?"

"For the very important task he was just assigned. For the war and the good of the entire kingdom," Lord Alasdair explained, eyes boring into his grandson.

Killian tried hard not to imagine punching him in the face. It was extremely difficult. It was even more difficult with the knowledge that he, even more than Giselle, had killed Ciarra.

"I'm sure he shall give you more details at the appropriate time," added the old man with a painful-looking smile.

"Then why am I here, my Lord?" Killian asked before he could stop himself, trying hard to keep the insolence out of his tone and only half-succeeding.

Lord Alasdair chuckled. "Very direct, aren't you? You remind me of someone else who looked a lot like you who sat in that very chair many years ago," Lord Alasdair commented off-handedly. "A Christine Crewe."

It took all of Killian's willpower not to react violently to the name. As it was, he could feel the blood draining from his face.

"Of course, Crewe was a false name; she would have been the heir to the throne if not for King Clayton, God bless his soul. Obviously, she was a threat," Lord Alasdair continued.

"To?" Killian gritted his teeth.

"The kingdom. Law, order, stability."

Killian swallowed, trying very hard to ignore the pounding of blood in his ears.

"What became of this threat, My Lord?"

Lord Alasdair grinned a wolfish grin that reminded Killian of why he had called him 'the dog-man' as a child. "I fucked her senseless."

Killian froze. "What?"

"I. Fucked. Her. Senseless." Lord Alasdair repeated, relishing every word. "I promised to protect her, and she begged me to fuck her. And I did. And then I killed her."

Killian realized that he was shaking.

"She was a threat, you understand, and I deal with all threats, as is my job."

_Breathe in, breathe out._ Killian tried to focus on nothing but the pull of air into his lungs and the release. He would be arrested on the spot if he acted on his anger. Lord Alasdair was a liar. He was testing him, Killian knew. He had to pass this test to live.

Lord Alasdair leaned forward. "Are you a threat, _Jones_? Or are you loyal to me?"

"I am loyal to the king," Killian replied carefully. "and to the kingdom."

Lord Alasdair eyed him carefully. "And to me?"

Killian swore internally.

"Are you not part of the kingdom?" He asked quietly. "You claim that you serve it as well. By that logic, we are on the same side."

The words repulsed him.

Lord Alasdair eyed him carefully, his true thoughts masked behind dead eyes. "Indeed."

Then he waved his hand. "You may go."

Killian stood shakily and turned to the door.

"I suggest that you remember where your loyalties lie," Lord Alasdair added, as he left. "A man is worthless without loyalty."

Killian clenched his fists. "Of course, my Lord."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma shook her head in disgust. "He actually said that?"

"It would be beyond bad form on my part to jest or exaggerate about such things," Killian growled. "I remember every word."

The only times Emma could ever remember seeing Killian look so angry were whenever he had made an attempt on Gold's life.

"Wow. I am so sorry," Emma breathed, a little bit stunned.

Killian just angrily shook his head and continued.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Of course, Liam had noticed something off with Killian the second he had walked out of Lord Alasdair's office. Fortunately, Killian had been able to pass it off as stunned happiness at being chosen as Liam's second-in-command and worry about not being up for the task. Now that they were home, Liam was watching him with obvious concern, in spite of any attempts to hide it.

With a sigh, Killian finally gritted his teeth and asked the only question that would be able to bring him piece of mind. "Liam, when you went to the naval academy, you took mother's journal, didn't you? Do you still have it?"

Liam looked at him in surprise. "Of course. Why?"

Giselle eyed him with sympathy. _So she was in on this_, Killian thought. The realization did not improve his mood.

"I just thought that mother and father would be so proud of you-"

"And you," Liam cut in.

"Of course," Killian agreed with a forced smile. "It's made me miss them anew. There was so much of their lives that we didn't even know... I feel as though I'm drifting away from them, and I thought that perhaps reading a bit about mother's life would help to ease the feeling. I could use some of her wisdom before our task, and I realized that there may be something hidden in her journal, as well..."

Liam looked down at his hands, refusing to meet his brother's eyes. "I've thought of reading her journal before, but I always feared that it would be an unforgivable violation of privacy. However, I shall leave this to your own conscience."

Privately, Killian cursed Liam and his stupid self-righteous morals. "My conscience is clear; I want to see it."

With a slight frown, Liam slowly went to his room and retrieved the worn, leather book. Killian muttered his thanks and retreated to his own room, closing the door quickly behind him and sitting against it. He rapidly flipped through the pages like a man possessed, searching for mentions of Lord Alasdair:

_"I'm torn with indecision. Edward's father is stalking me, I'm certain. He wears a mask, but his eyes are the same, and he reeks of lavender. I feel his eyes on me always, watching me. I'm frightened. I fear being alone, most of all, because that's when he mostly appears, although once he appeared as Edward was sleeping. He stood in the doorway and watched us for more than an hour. Of course, sleep evaded me for the rest of the night. I don't know what he wants, but I have a good guess. I am most terrified of changing or bathing, for he shows up most at those times. I want to tell Edward, in a way, but he would only become angry, and I fear that he would act rashly..."_

_"Today he kissed my neck. I felt so dirty that I almost confessed to Edward, but it's his father. How could he believe me?"_

_"He touched me. I am so frightened."_

_"__I told Edward of my stalker, but not his name. Tonight he tried to kill me, I swear, but Edward didn't believe me. I was in the depths of despair, but a solution has presented itself. Edward and I leave on the morrow. I shall not have to hurt Edward with unwanted knowledge after all."_

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma opened her mouth.

"She was journalling when the guards came. She stuffed it down her dress and took it with her."

Emma closed her mouth.

* * *

The Past

* * *

_"I want to die. I didn't think I could ever want to die, but I do._

_Killian ran into Lord Alasdair today, and he threatened to kill my boys if I didn't come to the palace. What could I do? I went, and he raped me. I'm not sure if I can call it rape, though, because it was almost a business transaction; the life of my family in exchange for letting Lord Alasdair have me. I shall give no details because reliving it would be almost as bad as having to live it in the first place. I am a common whore._

_I can't tell Edward. He'll hate me. Part of me wants to. I just want to tell him and cry in his arms until I die. Maybe he'd kill me himself. Heaven knows that I deserve it. I was unfaithful... me! I betrayed the man I love more than I love my life. I betrayed my whole family, and yet the only reason I don't kill myself is for their sake. I don't deserve to live._

_I feel the heaviness of deceit upon me_."

Killian closed the journal calmly and went to his bed. Then he grabbed his pillow and sobbed and shouted into it until he was too exhausted to think more than one, singular thought:

He wanted Lord Alasdair dead. Desperately.


	28. Chapter 28

The Past

* * *

Giselle barged into Killian's room at dawn the next day with little ceremony to find him sitting in the wooden chair by his bed, staring at the wall.

"You're awake," she commented, not sounding surprised.

The statement was so ridiculously redundant that Killian felt no need to flatter her with a reply. In truth, he had never even been asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw only his mother's face, or his mother and Lord Alasdair _together_, or his young, stupid self crashing into his grandfather and setting off the horrible chain of disastrous events that had become his life.

"Breakfast?"

Killian turned to her in surprise as she brought a plate with a piece of bread and a hunk of cheese on it from behind her back. Her smile was too forced, he decided.

"Poisoned?" He inquired, turning back to the wall.

With a scowl, Giselle took a bite out of each bit of food before thrusting the plate at him.

"Ah. A peace offering," Killian observed, putting the plate on the floor and folding his arms.

Giselle shot him a murderous look, before sitting on his neatly made bed without invitation. Then, she got straight to the point.

"You'd better not be planning anything foolish."

Innocently, Killian turned to her, a falsely pleasant smile on his face. "Foolish?"

"I don't know what Lord Alasdair said-"

"Do you not?" Killian was surprised.

Giselle rolled her eyes. "Of course not. He would never tell me his plans. He's quite cautious, that way. Nothing can ever be traced back to him. However, I have gathered it had to do with your mother, possibly her death, possibly an affair... that man certainly knows just what to do to break a person, doesn't he? Quite the test he's devised for you."

Somehow, Killian didn't appreciate having his grandfather's cleverness rubbed in his face. He already knew that the man was too clever and manipulative for his own good. Wasn't that why the old bastard was still alive? Not that some of his loved ones hadn't been clever; rather, they used cleverness moderated by goodness, which could never compete with cleverness without morals to restrain it.

"However, I would appreciate it if you would tell me _your_ plans," Giselle added sharply, interrupting his depressing musings.

"I have no plans."

"Of course you do. Whatever happened yesterday was unpleasant, clearly. Possibly unpleasant enough for you to do something rash." Giselle leaned towards him with a scowl. "I have worked far too hard at this for you to destroy everything now."

"Worked too hard at what?" Demanded Killian. "If you expect me to be straight with you, then I expect the same honesty in return."

For a moment, she only frowned at him. Then she sighed and started rubbing the bridge of her rather prominent nose, where Killian wondered if she was getting a stress headache. If he'd caused it, he was glad.

"I'm sure you're aware that I want Liam on the throne," Giselle said quietly. "And, at the moment, Lord Alasdair wants him on the throne as well; Liam is his own heir too, after all, and I think he believes that Liam would be more easily manipulated than our current king."

Killian snorted. "He really doesn't know Liam, then."

"No," agreed Giselle. "I don't know the particulars of this quest the king and Lord Alasdair have given him. Liam doesn't even know, yet. He only knows that he has been chosen for a task of great national importance, and that it's so important that he'll only receive details from the king himself on the day of your departure. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything there, but I can tell you this; if he succeeds, it will gather him great national acclaim and support. That is what will get him on the throne."

Killian sighed. "Liam won't want to be king, you do realize. He lives to serve our king and firmly believes that the king is honourable. Perhaps he is... I have no quarrel with the king. I have faith that he is as much of a victim of situation as we are, and perhaps as hopelessly manipulated by Lord Alasdair as well. Perhaps he truly has what is best for the realm at his heart. I sense that Lord Alasdair is the true villain here. Perhaps everything would right itself if he were gone."

Giselle groaned. "I knew it. You're plotting some ridiculous assassination attempt, aren't you?"

Killian shook his head. He didn't know what he was planning. He knew that he wanted Lord Alasdair dead, but assassination seemed cowardly and dishonourable. It was murder, and he had no desire to sink to Lord Alasdair's level.

"I want justice to be served," Killian said finally. "I want him to be brought before the law and atone for his crimes accordingly. I want everything to be revealed. Can you help me?"

He turned to her pleadingly, surprised by the request that sprang from his mouth without his permission. And yet, now that his brain had caught up with his mouth, he realized that it was the perfect solution. Giselle was in the realm's inner ruling circle. If anyone could reveal Lord Alasdair's crimes, it would be her.

Frown lines appeared between Giselle's eyebrows as she thought.

"He needs to go," she agreed. "I've known that for a long time. He has his hands in everything and is a danger to everyone. However, it will have to be done carefully, or we'll all lose our heads. We have to let him believe that we're on his side, and, then, when he's feeling most secure, hand him over to the law. Can you cooperate on this, Killian? Because, if you can't, we'll have no chance at all. You have to be on his side until the opportune moment."

"Yes," Killian agreed at once. "I will do what I have to do to rid the realm of him once and for all. Too many lives have been lost on his account."

"I agree," Giselle said seriously. "And perhaps, then, Liam could take Lord Alasdair's place. He would be an excellent king's advisor."

Killian nodded. "He would. And, who knows? The king has no heir... perhaps he would even consider naming Liam as his successor, if he knew his true identity."

"Telling him would be suicide," Giselle snapped. "Don't even think of it. Trust in the king's honour if it's easier for your conscience, but don't gamble Liam's life on it."

He shot her a murderous look. "I don't think you're one to lecture on gambling lives. In any case, Liam's life is my top priority, and suggesting otherwise is an insult. Any politics I discuss is simply to humour you."

"Well, I'm no longer discussing putting Liam on the throne, even though he belongs there-"

"Only because _you_ want to be on the throne as well."

"-just because _I_ am also humouring _you_. And don't you forget it."

Killian eyed his brother's girlfriend carefully, in all of her five foot glory. Sometimes he felt like she was more of a threat than Lord Alasdair. He couldn't read her, and it frightened him.

"So we're agreed?" She asked softly, drumming dainty white fingers on Killian's bedspread.

He nodded.

"Oh, and one more thing, Killian. Could you stop looking at me as though you want to wring my neck? It's somewhat disconcerting."

"If you stop looking at me as though I'm a pawn," Killian retorted.

"You are one," she replied coolly.

With a swish of fabric and a toss of her head, she was gone, leaving Killian even more disconcerted than before.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Oi!"

Emma let out a shout of protest as Killian yanked her backwards by her hood.

"Ow! What the hell, Hook?" She snapped.

"Thinking hard is permissible, but not when you almost take your eye out," he drawled, gesturing irritably at the tree branch she had narrowly avoided.

Even though she knew that she probably should have thanked him, she didn't. "You almost strangled me," she pointed out instead.

"Oh, forgive me," he said sarcastically. "It was all I could grasp of you at such short notice. However, next time, I'll let the tree bash your eye in. Quite a pair we'd be then, I must say. Three eyes and three hands between us."

In spite of herself, Emma grinned. "I could get an eyepatch. It could be my new name."

Killian tilted his head questioningly.

Emma pointed at his hook. "You know. Hook." She pointed at her eye. "Eyepatch."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Come on. It was sort of funny," she chuckled.

His lips quirked.

"But, since you interrupted yourself this time, I have a question."

"I would say, love, that you walking into a tree was the interruption, not my intervention," observed Hook in amusement. "Still, by all means, please continue. But walk and talk, hmm? We've still got a lot of ground to cover."

"You were able to just take months off from work?" She questioned incredulously as she continued picking her way across roots, dirt, and annoyingly tall plants. "I didn't know that the Enchanted Forest had sympathy leave."

Hook looked slightly embarrassed. "I forget how little you know about the navy. I apologize, love. After completing the naval academy program, everyone is expected to put in a certain amount of time of service. However, each captain hires a crew for a voyage only; once the voyage is completed, you're free to go on your way. Of course, academy boys are more sought after and start in higher positions. Once you reach certain ranks, you started to be known and hired by captains in advance. That's why major promotions had to be approved by the king, and captains only became captains after the death of the current captain mid-voyage or by the king's appointment. Once one had the rank of captain, one tended to stay with a single ship and go on voyages as the king ordered. Liam was well-liked by the king, which was why he was able to beg some months off to stay with me as I grieved, although he still made some shorter voyages."

"Wait, when did he become a captain?" Emma demanded, stopping so abruptly that Hook almost crashed into her.

He prodded her ahead with a resigned sigh. "Perhaps a month after I became a Lieutenant. I was away with a different captain at the time," Killian explained. "And before you say anything, Swan, there are a lot of details to fill in. I would have gotten there eventually."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Preparing for the voyage, orders to the crew flew automatically from Killian's mouth. That is, until something caught his eye.

"Rum, sailor?"

Killian sighed as he confiscated the offending bottle from the unfortunate crewman, launching into a lecture about how drunkenness led to bad form, which would certainly not be tolerated.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma laughed out loud.

"Aye, the irony is plain to me," Killian acknowledged. "But, alas, I was still far too young and naive to realize the true value of rum."

He shuddered at the memory and, as if to beg the drink's forgiveness, took a swig from his flask.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The _Jewel of the Realm_ was a beautiful ship. Liam had taken his brother aboard when he was first made captain of it, showing him every inch with the pride of a father showing off his firstborn. It was a new ship at the time, and one of the realm's best. Liam was its first captain, a role which he took as seriously as everything else in life. The moment he stepped foot onto the ship, he was all business: captain through-and-through rather than big brother. Killian watched in admiration. He even dreamed of having a ship of his own one day, although given the choice of having his own ship or being second-in-command on Liam's, he knew he would choose the lesser position every time. Perhaps it had to do with being the eldest child, but Liam had a natural air of command, as though he belonged in charge. Killian knew that Liam was the best choice for this quest, regardless of what it was; after multiple voyages, he had proven himself a worthy and honourable captain again and again. Killian was proud to be his younger brother and second-in-command.

Evidently, Liam was proud of him as well.

"My ship has never been in finer hands," he told him.

Part of Killian pushed the compliment away as something to boost his confidence. The other part sensed that Liam spoke the truth, and rejoiced in Liam's high opinion of him, which meant more than anything else in the world.

"A hero's journey", Liam had called it. The irony was not lost on his brother, in hindsight. If anything, the king's quest was Killian's anti-hero's journey: a journey that would start him on his path of darkness. Still, both brothers began the journey with a hopeful outlook. What was there to doubt? Killian had Liam: his older brother, his captain, his hero, his saviour, his guide. A great sail of pegasus feathers took them to another world, proving that magic and miracles were possible. Liam's gift to Killian to commemorate the journey, a sextant meant for the stars of Neverland, only added to Killian's optimism. Killian mused that it was only fitting that Liam, the only person to provide him with fatherly guidance since his own father's death, would give him something to help him find his way. Afterwards, it sometimes seemed as though Liam must have known that he was going to die and was giving his brother a parting gift to take his place in some small way.

Of Liam's two deaths, Killian almost couldn't decide which was more traumatic.

He first had the sinking feeling that something was wrong when Pan identified dreamshade as "the deadliest plant on the island". It wasn't difficult for Killian to believe that their king wasn't what he had hoped. Perhaps Giselle had known the true nature of their quest all along. Perhaps the quest was truly an attempt to set the brothers up as the two most villainous, heartless cads in the kingdom. It would be a great way to destroy the only two threats left to the monarchy.

In the end, Liam's blind faith was what destroyed him. By arguing, Killian imagined that he was saving his brother, not sentencing him to death. Nevertheless, Liam had always been one to go to great lengths to prove an argument and would never dream of risking anyone but himself to prove a point.

Liam had apologized as he fell, pale, into his brother's desperate arms. Killian still remembered his honest words to Pan as he literally begged him to save his brother's life, all pride forgotten:

"Please. He's my brother. He's all I have left."

Killian had lost everyone. The thought of losing his brother too was earth-shattering. He had endured all other losses thus far by leaning on the people that he had left. After Liam, who would he lean on? He would be absolutely alone. A world without Liam was terrifying: a void that could never be filled.

"Maybe you shouldn't have goaded him into it."

Yes, Pan had been right. Everything had been his fault. Liam's first death and his second. If he had told Liam of the untrustworthy nature of those he served in the first place, perhaps Liam wouldn't have gone to such extreme lengths to prove a point. If he had spent more time trying to decode Pan's cryptic "price" for saving Liam's life rather than sinking fully into the desperate relief of seeing his brother alive, his brother would have lived.

Instead, Killian lost his brother twice.

The worst part was his guilt and his inability to fully grieve. He was the captain now, and a captain could not show weakness, and so he watched his brother's body fall into the depths of the ocean with a stoney face that hid his slowly hardening heart from the world.

"We are sworn to serve the King and the realm. They sent us to retrieve an unthinkable poison, one that killed our dear Captain. Never again shall anyone set sail to that cursed land, and never again shall we take such orders: serving the King, fighting his wars! That is the way of dishonour, and all you who disagree, flee now or walk the bloody plank! For those who stay will be free men, and I will be your Captain. We'll sail under the crimson flag and we'll give our enemies no quarter. We'll take what we please! And we'll live by our own rules, for that is the best form of all! Our kingdom is corrupt and immoral. They took my brother from me, and now I'm gonna take everything they've got, starting with this ship! We now sail as the 'Jolly Roger.' And when they come for us, I want them to know exactly what we are: pirates! For at least among thieves, there is honour!"

The decision to become a pirate wasn't a decision, really. Rather, it was the result of loss upon loss and a desire for justice. The words slipped out of his mouth without his consent, but nothing had ever felt more right. If authority brought cruelty and dishonour, he would live a life without authority, and God help any man of dishonour who stood in his way.

He set the beautiful, snow-white sail of feathers alight - the sail of magic and possibilities and promise - and watched it burn.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma listened to the story of Liam's death with a thoughtful expression, only truly breaking it in response to Pan's taunts with a muttered "bastard". As Killian's voice, thick with anger and pain, trailed off, she turned to him questioningly.

"Why didn't you do what your brother was planning to do? Didn't you say the plan was to show everyone that the king was a monster and get rid of him?"

Killian scratched behind his ear uncomfortably, brooding silently for a moment as they walked.

"Liam would have been a great king," he said at last. "He was a natural leader, Swan: charismatic and just. Any revolution we staged would have landed him on the throne without a doubt, but I never desired to be king. I never even considered the possibility. I was the younger brother, and I didn't possess the same qualities as he did. I knew nothing of ruling a country, nor did I want to learn. My brother belonged on that throne, not me."

"But you weren't afraid to be captain of a ship," Emma pointed out.

Killian shook his head. "I certainly had some trepidation, but I knew that I could do it. I'd been training for it for quite some time. Ruling a country is something entirely different, and something I was wholly unqualified for both in terms of character and experience."

His voice was sad and resigned, but firm. Emma simply stared. He'd led a pirate ship for centuries, and yet seemed to have no faith in his ability to lead. However, she could see his point. Ruling a country and ruling a ship_ were_ entirely different. If anything, she respected him more for realizing that, especially at such a young age and under such emotional turmoil. It took a special sort of person to see power within his grasp and to push it away.

Glancing over at her companion, she almost told him as much, but she found that she couldn't when she saw his expression. A deep sadness seemed to have settled over him.

"I think Liam would be proud of you," Emma told him quietly.

Killian simply shook his head. "No. If I've been certain of anything since his death, it's that he would be disgusted," he said flatly.

Emma opened her mouth to argue, but Killian cut her off. "Swan, of the things I've done in my life, turning to piracy is the least of my sins."

She bit her lip, suddenly filled with even greater sympathy. She wondered briefly he was afraid to tell her the rest of his story, even with the knowledge that she was leaving for New York.

"Well, let me be the judge of that," she said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

He winced slightly.

"Hey. It's in the past. What you did doesn't matter now," she promised.

Killian shot her an incredulous look. She regretted her words almost instantly. If anything, their discussion was reminding her that the past mattered far more than anyone liked to admit.

"I was a little brat who ran away from home, stole from people, got pregnant at eighteen, gave birth in jail, and gave up my child," Emma reminded him quietly. "You can try to top that, but-"

"Oh, I will, Swan," Killian assured her with a self-deprecating smile. "I will."

* * *

Now that I've reached some scenes that we've seen on the show, I just wanted to say that I won't be going into them in great depth. You can assume that Killian does, but, as I'm assuming anyone reading this has seen the show, I'd rather focus on other things! Otherwise, I think I would get quite bored, and I imagine you guys would too.

As always, thanks for reading. :)


	29. Chapter 29

The Past

* * *

Captain Killian Jones stared moodily into his tankard of beer.

His ship had landed on this island - the first landing since its rechristening as a pirate ship - sometime earlier in the afternoon. Killian couldn't completely remember the name of it, but he did remember it had something to do with turtles*. The name was a good one, really. Like a turtle's shell, the island offered protection to a certain breed: pirates. Certainly, all of the kingdoms knew about the island's existence. However, they also had the sense to realize that striking a concentrated nest of ruthless pirates may be a foolish idea; Killian imagined that the amount of pirate ships docked on the island outnumbered any kingdom's navy two to one. As a result, the turtle island remained. It was a good place to buy supplies, buy a woman's company for the night, find a crew, or just to meet other men and women who had chosen the same career.

Perhaps that was why Killian was surprised to feel so lonely. He'd sent his crew off to do whatever it is they wanted to do, with strict rules not to rob anyone. He had no idea if pirates robbed each other while on their island sanctuary, and he certainly didn't want to find out in any unpleasant way.

His loneliness certainly wasn't from a lack of company, though. The sounds of shouting, laughter, and music were deafening inside the pub he had decided to visit. Even in his small corner table, he still had to put up with drunken louts stumbling towards him. However, other than that, the only interaction with others he had was the occasional suspicious glare.

"_Mon ange, ma belle, ma minette_-"

Words of endearment spilled desperately from a man who backed into his table with a thump before receiving a smart smack to the face by a busty woman.

Killian sighed a long-suffering sigh before draining his glass.

The man turned to look at him, studying him with light brown eyes lined heavily with eyeliner.

"Can I help you?" Killian drawled, hand automatically going to his belt for a knife.

"_Non_, but I think that I can 'elp you," he said in a heavy accent, drawing up a chair without invitation. He was clearly at least slightly inebriated.

"I doubt it," he scowled, hoping that the man would go away.

No such luck.

"You are new? A navy deserter?"

Killian bristled. "No." He took offense at the idea of desertion. Only cowards did that, and he certainly wasn't a coward. Cowards had no honour, whereas honour was his creed. He wasn't a deserter. At least, not really. He hadn't run away. He had declared war. Surely that made him a revolutionary, if anything.

The man chuckled, before motioning to a nearby barmaid. "Rum for myself and my friend."

"We're not friends," Killian interrupted irritably.

The man ignored him. "Listen, friend. No captain will 'ave you aboard if you're dressed like that. You may 'ave lost your navy coat, but unless you do more than that, no one will 'ire you. They'll think you're a spy."

"I'm not looking to be hired, sir," he said haughtily. "I'm captain of my own ship, and I shall ask for your advice if I require it."

"You do require it. What sort of crew will follow a captain with 'air ribbons?"

Killian scowled, but his hand flew to his hair. It had grown out while he had been in the midst of mourning Ciarra, and as his current hairstyle was in fashion back in the capital of his kingdom, he had seen no reason to cut it. However, the man was right. A quick scan about the room revealed that his hairstyle, if fashionable back home, looked very out of place in the tavern of pirates. There were plenty of men with long hair, bandanas, beads, and dreadlocks, but certainly no long hair tied back with a ribbon.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Without much success, Emma attempted to mask her silent laughter. The thought of Captain Hook with a hair ribbon was just too funny of an image.

"Go ahead, Swan, laugh. I imagine such a style is unusual for you, as well," Killian said without turning around.

* * *

The Past

* * *

When Killian turned back to his brown-eyed companion after his style epiphany, the man was smirking.

"You see? You need some 'elp, friend."

"And what makes you so interested in providing it?" He questioned suspiciously.

The man chuckled, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he surveyed Killian. Finally, he leaned back with a grin, as though having made up his mind on something. "You're a clever lad. Young, but clever."

"Answer the question."

"You remind me of someone, just slightly. An old friend who died some time ago. Allow me to honour this friend by assisting you."

Killian considered the man. He was tanned and somewhat wrinkled, perhaps twice Killian's age plus a few years. His hair may have been blonde once, but dirt had settled into it very comfortably and darkened the dreadlocks by at least several shades. While perhaps slightly drunk, the man still carried an air of intelligence and a certain charm.

"Who are you?" Killian asked finally.

"Jacques Moineau," he replied with a grin, offering his hand. "Pirate captain myself with quite the reputation."

While he'd never heard of him, Killian decided not to offend the man by acknowledging as much. "Killian Jones."

They shook hands just as the rum arrived.

"Who was this friend I remind you of?" Killian asked as soon as the serving girl had sauntered off again.

"A good man. Very honourable," replied Jacques as he poured each of them a shot. Killian regarded the deep brown liquid suspiciously. "My ship was stolen from me some time ago, and 'e 'elped me to obtain it again in exchange for a ride 'ome to 'is children."

"You knew my father?" Guessed Killian, eyes narrowing at once. "Edward Jones?" He bit back his repulsion at the thought of resembling his father in any noticeable way.

Jacques nodded with a sad smile. "Shall we drink to 'im?"

"No," Killian said coolly. "I hate to disappoint you, but my father was neither good nor honourable."

Jacques regarded him with pity in his eyes. "Edward did not think 'e was, either. From what I recall, 'e abandoned 'is sons and couldn't forgive 'imself."

"Good," snarled Killian, his mood having soured considerably at the first mention of his father.

"But then he worked very 'ard to return to them and destroy the final threat to them: his father, a Lord Alasdair."

"Yes, he went for revenge and failed. Thank you, I'm aware of that," retorted Killian, finally overcoming his scruples and downing his shot in a single gulp. Immediately, he started coughing and spluttering. "Ugh!"

Jacques chuckled. "Best get used to rum, friend. It is the best friend a man can 'ave on the seas."

Killian shot him a glare.

"Yes, Edward was a man who endured terrible loss, but went down fighting. A very good man," reiterated Jacques.

"If he'd been a good man, he would have come back to Liam and me, not thrown his life away," argued Killian.

"Ah, but would 'e 'ave been welcome back?" Asked Jacques with a knowing smirk.

"By Liam," Killian agreed. "So long as he was a law-abiding citizen with good morals."

"Which 'e was not, even if 'e 'ad been before. And by you?"

"No," he admitted, swirling his newly refilled rum around in its glass moodily. "But that shouldn't have mattered. If anything, he should have tried harder to earn our forgiveness and acceptance. He gave up, so he deserved everything he got. A man who doesn't fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. He shouldn't've thrown his life away."

"Shouldn't 'ave, should 'ave, it makes no difference. 'e did what 'e did. 'e was a good friend to me, and now I will be a good friend to 'is son." Jacques bared his teeth in yet another smile. Killian opened his mouth to argue, but Jacques cut him off. "If you 'ave trouble accepting the 'elp for that reason, think of it as me 'elping 'im repay 'is debt to you."

Killian nodded tightly, although he privately knew that no amount of help from a stranger would even start to remove the resentment he harboured towards his late father.

"How did you recognize me?" He asked curiously a few minutes later, as Jacques swallowed yet another gulp of rum.

"I knew your mother, as well. You look much like 'er. That, and also you moping 'ere by yourself. I met your father when 'e was doing much the same thing," Jacques chuckled at the memory.

At the mention of his mother, Killian's mouth dropped. "Wait, how did you know my mother?"

"I fell into piracy after my first career ended quite 'orribly," he admitted with a predatory smile that made Killian uncomfortable. "I went by a stage name at that time: Raoul. Perhaps your mother mentioned me? We were quite... close, for a time."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma burst out laughing again. "No way!"

"Aye, the very same one," groaned Killian.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian felt his face start to flush as he understood what the pirate was insinuating. "She may have mentioned you once or twice." _To imitate your voice cracking_, Killian added vindictively in his head, feeling his dislike for the older pirate rising by the second. He was also becoming increasingly curious as to how his father had become friends with this man. Maybe they had bonded over his mother's death. Or their shared passion for criminal activity. Or their mutual need of their other and their tenuous pre-existing connection that came from sleeping with the same woman. Killian didn't know, nor did he particularly care to find out.

"Yes, well, Christine was a lovely woman. I was sad to 'ear that she was dead."

Not knowing how to answer that, Killian simply nodded, grimacing through even more rum.

Finally, after suffering through more awkward conversation as Jacques drank his fill of alcohol, the two left the tavern for the filthy streets of the island. By that point, any doubts Killian had about association with this Jacques Moineau had been confirmed. Killian had decided, perhaps as soon as he heard mention of his father, that he had no desire to receive any further "help" from the man. Certainly, he had provided some helpful opinions, but Killian wanted nothing else from him. As a result, he gave him the slip as soon as possible, which wasn't difficult considering the amount of alcohol the man had consumed.

Nevertheless, the encounter was quite informative. Killian spent his evening purchasing various clothing and personal items, and, by the next morning, he barely recognized himself. His cotton uniform had been replaced by mostly leather, his hair was short and much more manageable, and he'd even bought some kohl for his eyes. Jacques had suggested getting some earlier, pointing out that many pirates used it. When Killian asked why, he could only half-understand the response through the slurring. However, he understood something about it being intimidating, or else protecting eyes from the sun? Killian wasn't sure if he believed much of what Jacques had said, but ended up trying it and deciding he liked it. At any rate, the black smudges helped to hide things that had left their mark on his face lately, like exhaustion and grief.

In the end, he barely recognized himself when he got back onto his ship the next day. He looked older, he noted, which pleased him. He also looked more authoritative. It was a good change, he decided, and perfect for his next plan of action.

There was a brief setback before he could set off, though. Much to his unhappy surprise, Killian discovered Jacques Moineau waiting on his gangplank with a scowl and a massive hangover.

"I do not appreciate my 'elp being taken for granted," he sneered, playing lazily with his knife. In the light, he looked even older and more weathered. Rather than being intimidated by the knife, Killian just stared at his filthy fingernails in disgust.

"And I do not appreciate drunkards on my ship. Move aside, old man," Killian ordered irritably. "As I'm sure you can see, your help was unnecessary."

"But it may be necessary in the future. You do not want me as your enemy," he drawled, gaze flitting around the harbour pointedly.

Killian followed his gaze and felt a small chill race up his spine as he recognized multiple groups of unfamiliar and unfriendly-looking men, all with weapons ready and quite clearly waiting for a signal from Jacques.

"What do you want?" Killian demanded, feeling more anger than fear. It seemed that his capacity to fear had left when the last person he truly cared about died.

"A guarantee of friendship," Jacques told him with a smile that revealed some blackened teeth. "It is good to have allies on the 'igh seas, my friend."

"Fine," Killian sighed. "Now get off of my ship."

Jacques smiled again. "Perhaps as a sign of friendship, we can do a small exchange?"

"Of what?" Asked Killian, getting even more annoyed and liking this alliance less and less.

"I give you one of my men, you give me one of yours? An exchange of goodwill."

_More like an exchange of spies_, Killian thought sourly. However, he shrugged nonchalantly and agreed, all the while cursing his father yet again.

Finally, _finally_, Killian escaped the island and his "friend". Being out on the open sea lifted his spirits slightly. Killian wasn't certain that he could say the same of the crew, though. There was an air of moroseness on the _Jolly Roger_ as it set sail once again. On the way to the island of turtles and pirates, he and his crew had met their first real challenge as newly self-declared pirates, which was a battle with a naval ship from their kingdom. The worst part had been that Killian had recognized the captain of the ship from naval school. It had been a curious conflict of morals. On one hand, he had sworn to work against the king. On the other hand, Killian had no argument with his former classmate. Killian's heart, or what was left of it, had sunk to his toes when the captain had haughtily refused to surrender and swore to bring them to justice, even when Killian had explained the king's corruption. True to his promise of giving their enemies no quarter, none on the naval ship had been left alive. Killian had watched his former classmate die with regret, and he knew that a handful of his men were doubting their decision to turn to piracy. He'd had to make one walk the plank as an example to the others, and he hoped he wouldn't have to do it again. He would certainly rather have men who obeyed him through a sense of loyalty rather than fear.

"Killian?"

Killian whirled around to glare at the man who had addressed him so informally. He was immediately confused to see his new crew member, courtesy of Jacques Moineau.

"That's 'Captain' to you, sailor," Killian replied sternly, studying the man as he did so. The man looked to be a few years older than him, with light brown hair that defied gravity and warm brown eyes that looked oddly familiar, in spite of the dark rim around them from kohl.

"Of course, Captain, I just meant to say... I don't suppose you remember me?" The man was now grinning goofily underneath his thick and tangled beard.

"No."

"It's Owen! Owen Mallory!" Owen said cheerfully. "I recognized you at once, although I suppose the scar helped."

"Owen?" Killian looked at him in amazement. The possibility of this being a trick immediately popped into his head, but he pushed aside with the reasoning that no one, not even a friend of his father's, would know who he served with as a child in the war.

"Aye, Captain!" He confirmed with a wink, wrapping Killian in a bear hug. "I'm honestly shocked to see you here. You didn't seem the sort to turn to piracy!"

"It's a long story," Killian said darkly. "But I would have said the same about you."

"The king burnt down my farm," he said with a shrug. "I needed to make a living somehow."

"You couldn't recite poetry, or something of that sort?" Teased Killian.

Owen chuckled, looking up at Killian in amusement. Killian felt tears start to prick at his eyes and turned away quickly to hide it. He had been so certain that everyone he had known was dead, and, now, here was a friend from the past. It was simultaneously a relief to see a friendly face and to feel less alone, and also terrifying to imagine losing someone else.

"So, where are we going?" Asked Owen, changing the subject abruptly and with his usual enthusiasm. "Jacques didn't tell me when he sent me to you."

Killian's expression soured immediately at the mention of the name.

"He's not so bad, really," Owen said quickly.

A single eyebrow jumped up to Killian's hairline in skepticism. "No?"

Owen shook his head quickly, sending his mop of hair flopping about. "He offered me a job on his ship when I was penniless and had no experience."

"Why?" Scoffed Killian, musing yet again that Jacques didn't seem the sort to do favours for free.

"Probably at least slightly out of desperation," his friend admitted. "It's a long story, but Jacques was heading out on a suicide mission, more or less, and no one was very eager to come along unless they were equally desperate, as I was. He was going against an old rival, who was rumoured to be immortal, simply to save his friend."

"Which _friend_?" Killian questioned, failing to rein in his disgust at the word.

Owen shrugged. "A fellow named Guillaume. I guess they'd been on some sort of voyage together before. He was really very nice. Anyway, Jacques and Guillaume's lover were determined to save him, and I got a job out of it. Jacques has treated me very well ever since. He repays loyalty well and values it above all, you understand. He can come on a bit strong, though, so I can understand if he scared you off."

That earned Owen a dirty look from his former friend. Killian wasn't _scared_ off. He just preferred to associate himself with people of a higher caliber.

"Clearly, you survived," remarked Killian stiffly, "so 'suicide' mission seems like a misnomer."

"It was close. It's easy to bond with others over danger," Owen replied. "Jacques is like a father to me, Killian. I don't think you'll regret an alliance."

Killian sighed. Perhaps assuming that he now had a friend on board had been too big of an assumption.

"You still haven't told me where we're going," Owen prompted with an easy grin.

"Home," Killian said stiffly. The word tasted strange on his tongue.

Owen stared. "Isn't that a bit risky? I thought you just deserted. Doesn't the king boil people alive for deserting?"

"Mr. Mallory, we may have been childhood friends, but, aboard this ship, you are just another member of my crew. You'd best keep your opinions to yourself," Killian said coldly.

"But why are we going?" Owen asked in confusion.

"Because your captain has said so. Now, get to work, Mr. Mallory," Killian snapped.

Owen shot him a hurt look that reminded Killian of a kicked puppy, before leaving him blessedly alone, if slightly lonely, at the wheel of his ship. Then, he double checked his course. Soon, he would be back home. He would get his few belongings that he cared about and throw them on the ship. He would forget about Jacques and Owen. Most importantly, he would serve justice. He intended to make it out alive, but, if he didn't, that wasn't such an inconvenience.

* * *

*Just a brief geeky idea referencing "Tortuga", the famous historical island for pirates off the coast of Haiti. Obviously, this would be a parallel Tortuga in the Enchanted Forest universe, but I liked the idea of it existing.


	30. Chapter 30

The Past

* * *

The room reeked of lavender: everything from the cushions to the papers to the stones.

Killian started composing a song for flute, violin, and cello to keep himself calm. Then he realized it was only escalating his heart rate and not keeping him calm at all. He hated the flute. Why had he picked that instrument, of all things?

With a shaky sigh, Killian cleaned his sword on the thick, velvet curtains, just for something to do. It wouldn't be long now. The last guard he'd dispatched had told him just about everything there was to know about Lord Alasdair's schedule in an attempt to save his skin. Of course, it hadn't worked. Killian was far too close to his goal to get sloppy now.

He was going to kill his grandfather.

The thought thrilled him. The thought terrified him.

However, this was more than just a personal score. It was what was right. Lord Alasdair had killed everyone he cared about. Not with his own hands, no, but he'd killed them all the same. He was a murderer and a liar. And Killian was going to make him beg and scream and cry the way he'd made that guard. In a way, it seemed as if everything in his life, from the moment he and his grandfather had collided, had led up to this point. He and Lord Alasdair had been doing a subtle dance around the other, facing everyone but each other. Now it was time to settle the score, man to man. Killian was tired of having everything taken from him, and perhaps other people were too. Killian imagined that Lord Alasdair's claws were snagged on far more lives than his own. Lord Alasdair was never going to torment anyone again.

The doorknob started to turn.

Killian's hand trembled slightly.

The door creaked open, revealing soft purple slippers underneath a soft purple gown. Killian's raised sword started to fall as a decidedly feminine figure entered the room quietly.

"Killian?!" Giselle exclaimed in shock as she turned around from closing the door, stifling a shriek with her hands.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Killian hissed.

"I could ask the same of _you_," she snapped, eyes flashing. "Where's Liam?"

Killian let out a harsh laugh, the name sending a pang of pain through what was left of his heart. "Where the hell do you think?"

Giselle took a step backwards, the colour draining from her face. "W-what are you saying?"

"He's dead. If you weren't in on it, then you were played for a fool," Killian told her shortly. "Now, I suggest you clear out while justice is served."

"He's not supposed to be dead," Giselle muttered, shaking her head.

"No?" Sarcasm dripped from the monosyllable.

"No!" Giselle shouted. "He's not." She shook her head again, now leaning against the wall for support. "He's not!"

"Then what was supposed to happen?" Killian advanced slowly, relishing the flicker of fear in Giselle's normally expressionless eyes.

"He was supposed to come back a hero," Giselle said. "What happened?"

"It wasn't a healing plant. It was a poison. It killed him within minutes." _Twice_.

"I know. I overheard Lord Alasdair and the king talking. I thought it would be even better, since it would give you a reason to overthrow the crown, and Liam would have to take it, because it would be a matter of honour. He'd never have taken the crown otherwise."

Killian clenched his jaw and his fists, the revelation heightening his awareness so that he was aware of everything, from the cold bite of the sword against his hand to the small tear worming its way down Giselle's face. Of course, it had always been about getting Liam on the throne for her. How could he have been so stupid as to forget that?

"You failed to mention that crucial piece of information. What happened to telling each other everything?" Killian snarled.

"I guess I wasn't the only one played," she admitted with a grimace, as though the guilty party in this case was someone besides herself. "But it wouldn't've made a difference."

"No?!" Killian yelled. "He would still live if I'd known! He cut _himself_ with the poison _on purpose_ to prove that it was medicine!"

A sickening silence fell over the room. If possible, Giselle's face became even paler.

The realization struck him all at once. "_You_ killed him. Just as much as Lord Alasdair and the king and anyone else!" _As much as me, or more_, he added silently.

"I was doing what was best for him," Giselle replied desperately as Killian advanced. "What was best for all of us. It was an accident. You think I don't wish he were still alive?"

"Maybe for your own selfish reasons. Bloody selfish bitch," he growled.

All at once, his sword was raised at her throat. Unshed tears were starting to blind him, but he knew that he could still see well enough to do the job.

"Killian, please. Your brother loved me," Giselle blurted frantically.

Killian pushed the sword forward.

"I'm with child!"

Killian stopped mid-swing. "What?"

Giselle looked at him with fiery dark eyes. "I am pregnant with your brother's child. If you kill me, you're killing a piece of him as well."

It was a very convenient story, but the possibility of truth was there. He could certainly kill her, but he knew that the guilt of even the faint possibility of killing Liam's child would haunt him for the rest of his life and systematically destroy him. Killian's hand started to tremble even more violently.

"Damn you," he grunted at last, dropping his sword as if it had burned him.

Giselle sunk to the floor, breathing hard and wiping at stray tears. The tears soon escalated into sobs as she pulled herself into a tiny ball, looking remarkably young and harmless for what Killian knew she was. Killian did his best to ignore her, until guilt caught up with him and he awkwardly patted her shoulder. She shrugged him off violently and scrambled away from him. With a sigh, Killian leaned his head back against the wall.

"I apologize," he gritted out. The words felt like broken glass forcing its way out of his throat. "If anyone could come even close to as grieved about Liam's passing as me, it would be you. I can recognize that you thought you were doing what was right, even if I disagree and hate you for it." He added bitterly.

"A wonderful apology," she sneered, although her usually ferocity was dulled by her hiccuping sobs.

Killian ignored her. "Still, you're not alone. We can sail away from this cursed land and find a better one. I'll help you through this, if you let me. If a child is all I have left of Liam, then I'll do everything in my power to protect him or her and give it a happy life."

"A happy life? All the lives around you are poisoned," Giselle told him harshly.

Killian recoiled at the word choice, which he later surmised was probably intentional. Before he could reply, there was a sword at his throat.

"Well done, Giselle."

Killian was pulled roughly to his feet by several guards while Lord Alasdair watched from the doorway, his cold grey eyes sparkling with something close to delight. It was hard to say for sure, though, since his eyes were too dead to fully express any emotion.

"The pregnancy was a particularly nice touch," Lord Alasdair added with a smirk.

Curses slipped out of Killian's mouth towards Giselle and his grandfather before one of the guards knocked the air out of him. Giselle winced, but refused to meet his eyes, instead steadily sobbing into her hands. If Killian had been thinking, he would have noticed that Giselle certainly didn't look like a traitor, but rather a woman broken under the weight of her grief. However, he was too busy feeling the sting of his own betrayal to notice anything sympathetic about the figure in front of him, or to realize that Liam's death was certainly news to her, even if the nature of the plant they'd been sent to retrieve was not. If anything, he loathed everything about her, from her pathetically short height to her disgustingly purple dress to how red her nose was when she cried.

"You said you _loved_ him!" Killian wheezed as he was pulled out the door, still attempting to struggle against his foes.

Giselle curled further in on herself, but didn't reply. The last thing Killian saw as he was dragged away was the sight of his grandfather's smirking face.

* * *

Yes, this is a shorter chapter, but this seems like a good place to end it, and I really just wanted to let you all know that I haven't forgotten about you. I'll follow this up soon. Sorry for the delays, and thank you for reading (as always!). :)


	31. Chapter 31

At this point, I think you've all realized that this is rated mature for a reason. Still, this chapter is really mature for reasons of violence. Again, not overly graphic because that's not really my sort of thing, but I just thought I'd provide a warning. There are also references to some mature subject matter. If you've gotten this far, I imagine you're okay, though!

* * *

The Past

* * *

It was as he dangled from his wrists in pitch blackness that Killian regretted never asking his parents about being in prison. True, he'd been young. True, his parents did not seem eager to broach the subject. It seemed like the fact that his parents had been in prison was something he'd always known growing up, perhaps because Uncle Gavin kept mentioning it. He'd laugh about the times he'd spent with Christine as next-door-cell-neighbours, or mention how Martha had moved up in the world now that she'd gone from living in a prison to living in a real house, or talk about how he first fell in love with Sari when she brought him food and they exchanged hushed words through the bars. Sari would then retort that his stomach had fallen in love with her, not Gavin himself, and then Gavin would laugh a hearty laugh and go on to list everything he loved about his wife. Yes, Killian had initially pictured prison as a sort of living room with bars, based on all of the fun that seemed to have happened there. Really, it just sounded like a place for young people to meet and become friends, parents, or lovers.

His parents had done little to contradict this idea. Neither Christine nor Edward ever really talked about the subject willingly or in any great detail. When the subject came up, his parents followed a familiar pattern; his father looked angry and ashamed, and his mother would shoot her husband a look before quickly changing the subject. Killian had imagined that it was became both were good people who tended to obey the law; prison was likely a sore point for them if it blackened their record.

However, Killian had eventually grown up, and his views had changed with his life experience. He'd also caught snippets about prison while frantically flipping through his mother's journal. He'd never looked at it closely, though, as his mission was to find out about whether or not Lord Alasdair had truly slept with his mother and not to learn about Christine's time in prison. It was a shame, because perhaps reading it would have been good preparation. As it was, to Killian's knowledge, the journal was still in his and Liam's old lodgings (assuming Lord Alasdair hadn't done anything to them) and was useless to him now.

Of course, it was really too late to prepare. He hadn't been this hungry or thirsty since he'd been a starving child on the streets, waiting for his father to come home. He hadn't been this sore since Uncle Connor's last beating. And he couldn't remember ever being anywhere so dark. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, which made Killian wonder if he was under the castle's moat. He heard some rats squeaking, but it was too dark to see them. He was glad that he hadn't worn his new clothes to kill Lord Alasdair. He'd decided to wear his old spare navy uniform to get into the castle more easily. That uniform was now mostly in pieces, or at least the shirt was. Killian would guess he was wearing perhaps half of it, at most, and it was mostly hanging off of his body, leaving him to shiver against the cold chains that held his wrists firmly above his head, sending excruciating pain through his arms, shoulders, and back.

As expected, Lord Alasdair himself hadn't come. Killian knew that his grandfather hated getting his hands dirty. He was expecting that he would be executed quite soon, probably boiled alive, but that hadn't happened at all. He'd been questioned about the plant and the pegasus sail instead. When he'd told them with little prodding and a great deal of satisfaction that both were utterly out of reach, they had proceeded to question him on the whereabouts of the _Jewel of the Realm_. His ship was currently docked a good distance away from the city in a hidden little cove to the south, and he had no intentions of telling them _that_. He'd told his first mate that if he wasn't back within two weeks, that the man could assume the worst and take the ship for himself. He would be a terrible captain if he set these royal buffoons upon his crew and his ship. So, of course, he remained silent and endured whatever torture was used on him.

It helped that his mind was kept plenty busy. He tried to guess the amount of days he'd been down here. Since he hadn't had much to eat or drink, he assumed that he was not on any set schedule. Time passed differently here. But, if he had to guess, he'd assume that he'd been down here for four days. It had taken three to travel to the city from the ship's docking point, which meant that he had about a week to get back to his ship before it was gone. He wasn't really expecting to get back, though, so keeping track was more a way to keep his mind busy than an actual necessity. He also thought about Giselle, how stupid he'd been to trust her, and how much he hated his grandfather. Mostly, he thought of Liam. He was grateful that he'd been feeling numb since Liam's passing, because he thought that nothing hurt as much now as it would have in the past. No physical pain compared to the pain of losing his brother.

When all of that failed, he thought of creative ways to kill his grandfather.

The whip would crack.

He could push him out the window. Then carry him back up and throw him out again. And again and again. Until he was dead.

It would crack again.

Or maybe that would cause him to pass out. He really wanted the pain to linger. Maybe he could keelhaul him?

Crack.

No, still too quick.

And things would continue that way, until Killian came up with the most grisly ways to dispatch his enemy.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"But I won't disclose them. You wouldn't be able to handle it," Killian said, eyes lighting up teasingly in spite of the subject matter.

Emma imagined that it was more likely that he was just afraid of what she would think if he told her the darkest parts of his heart, but she played along. "Oh, please. We both know that I can handle anything you come up with."

Of course, it was only then that Emma realized how closely this conversation was beginning to mirror another they'd had. Her heart started to pound. Had he worded it that way deliberately, perhaps hoping for a repeat of the kiss that resulted from last time? She risked a quick sideways glance at him. From the slightly pained look on his face, she guessed that he hadn't, but the parallels were not lost on him either. The worst part was that, in a way, _she_ wanted to repeat what had happened last time. She was attracted to him without a doubt, and she always had been. Still, it was one thing to feel a physical attraction, and another to trust someone enough to have a relationship. She was leaving. She was only thinking such ridiculous things because he was baring his soul to her. This was clearly some stupid subconscious need to give something in return. Had he planned it that way? That was a new level of manipulative, if so, and she certainly wasn't going to fall for it.

Still, a part of her seemed to know that this wasn't a result of any manipulation by him, and that was beginning to frighten her.

"What happened next?" Emma demanded, changing the subject quickly.

Killian looked almost relieved.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian knew what was coming next: the rack. He wondered if playing this mind game on him was part of the torture; the anticipation of it would probably be worse than the torture itself. Killian knew that he couldn't give them any information, because that would be terrible form on his part. Still, the refusal of information meant that he would probably die, or at least be permanently crippled. On the plus side, he would get to join his family, if an afterlife did exist (which he wasn't betting on, based on his luck thus far).

He was so consumed by his thoughts and the various aches and pains throughout his body that he almost missed the quiet approaching footsteps, so different from the stomping steps of his torturer.

With great effort, he lifted his head slightly to view his unexpected visitor. His eyes narrowed at the sight.

"Giselle! How are you feeling?" He asked sarcastically.

"What?" She asked incredulously, her voice slightly hoarse as she folded around her body in a strangely childlike, protective gesture.

"Isn't that a common query for women in your condition? I imagine I would have asked Ciarra that quite frequently if you hadn't had her murdered," drawled Killian, eyes flashing.

"Please, for the love of God, stop talking before I regret this," she snapped, reaching for his right wrist.

"What-"

He cut himself off with a quiet yell of pain as his right wrist was released, putting all of the pressure on his left.

"Be quiet!" She hissed.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Killian groaned, feeling sweat drip down his face from the pain.

"You poor thing. They must have hit you in the head too many times."

Killian fell heavily to the floor, unable to stand as his left wrist was released.

"Get up!" Giselle prompted irritably, grabbing one of his arms.

Killian cried out, and Giselle let out a long-suffering sigh. She dropped to a crouch and grabbed his chin.

"Listen. I'm getting you out of here, but that's it. I'm doing this for Liam, and then we're done, understand? I never want to see your face again. Now, be quiet, and get up."

"If this is to make up for killing him, you can't," Killian retorted through gritted teeth.

Giselle raised a hand as if to slap him, but then dropped it, trembling, running a hand through her unusually messy brown hair. Even in the dim light from the torch she had brought, Killian could see that her eyes were red and bloodshot.

"I'm not doing this to make anything up to you. I did what I did because it was the right thing to do at the time. I'm doing it for _Liam._ Now, stop being selfish, you ingrate, and get the hell off the floor."

Giselle stood back up, letting out a small noise of disgust. "There's blood on my dress."

"Forgive me. If I'd known you were coming, I would have made an effort to tidy things up, but you know how it is," Killian said with a groan, slowly picking himself up to lean heavily against the wall.

"Come on," Giselle prompted, prodding him impatiently in the back. Killian had to stifle a scream.

"Would you please stop touching me?" He hissed.

Throwing her hands up in the air, Giselle stepped back, muttering angrily to herself.

Killian took several unsteady steps forward, seeing Giselle shaking her head in disapproval in his peripheral vision. Rage flooded his heart once again, especially now that the surprise of seeing his brother's former lover had passed. Before she could react, Killian had her pinned against the wall with a blood-stained hand around her throat.

"I should kill you," he murmured into her ear softly. He felt her shiver. "You're a murderer who's only attempting to appease her own conscience."

In spite of the situation, Giselle stayed incredibly calm, her dark eyes narrowing in on his face with disdain. "That would be a fine way to thank me for saving your life."

"I spared yours, and you took two away from me: Liam and Ciarra. You're two lives in debt," Killian reminded her softly, emphasizing each word.

"You're just looking for someone to blame to avoid blaming yourself. You left Ciarra, and you failed to save Liam," Giselle replied with a steely gaze. "I should be the one killing you for taking my love away from me."

"Lord Alasdair did, if anyone did," Killian replied, tightening his grip slightly.

"Exactly," Giselle said.

Killian released her in surprise, and she backed away quickly.

"You _want_ me to kill him. This isn't just about Liam after all," he realized.

"It's partly about Liam, but, yes, I expect that you will rid us of him once and for all. He's in his study, and I drugged the guards. He's a manipulator and a snake. Go kill the bastard," Giselle agreed, eyes flashing. A lone tear slipped down her porcelain cheek as she handed him a knife hilt-first, confirming how serious she was.

"Shouldn't I kill you first?" Killian growled.

"If I were pregnant out of wedlock, I wouldn't have told Lord Alasdair," Giselle pointed out. "The same reasons for not killing me before still apply. I know you won't hurt me, because I'm carrying Liam's child."

Killian shook his head angrily, tired of being out-manipulated time and time again and never knowing what the truth was.

"Perhaps the child deserves to die, if it's yours," Killian thought out loud.

Giselle froze in surprise, eyes wide as tears fell freely from them.

A new wave of anger flooded Killian. "What? Surprised that you can't manipulate me again?"

She shook her head slowly, face drawn and sad. "Liam would be ashamed of you."

Killian recoiled as if slapped. Any torture he'd had was nothing compared to those words. His heart was pounding angrily in his ears, and he felt almost as if he were floating away. It was a strange, horrible feeling.

Shaking his head, he turned away, and half-ran out of the cell.

"Goodbye, Killian," Giselle called after him.

Then she sank to the floor of the cell again and cried.

* * *

True to her word for once, Killian didn't see a single guard as he limped his way up to Lord Alasdair's study, thanks to Giselle.

He paused outside the heavy wooden door. For all he knew, it was another trap. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. He would be okay with going back to prison and torture so long as he got his knife into Lord Alasdair first.

The door opened with a quiet creak, letting out a strong wave of lavender. Killian hated lavender with a passion.

Lord Alasdair was sitting quietly at his desk, dressed as richly as ever in a white shirt and a purple doublet. He had a glass of wine in his hand that he drank from, leaving a small rim of red around his mouth. Heavy rings adorned his fingers. His silvery hair caught the torchlight, and Killian found himself feeling surprised that the the man looked so old. Wrinkles were lining his face and his neck, perhaps even his fingers that grasped the golden cup of wine. With that thought came the reminder that because of this man, his entire family would never live to such an old age. Lord Alasdair had outlived them all, wallowing in decadence and power.

"Are you going to come in, or just linger around the door?" Lord Aladair's voice cut into his fantasy, surprisingly deep.

He signed a paper with a flourish, before finally lifting his dead eyes to the figure at the door. No surprise passed over his calm features. Killian wanted to watch that calmness break into a million pieces and scatter them into the wind.

"So you've returned to try again. Remarkable. Looking quite awful, though, and smelling awful too." With those words, Lord Alasdair reached into a desk drawer for a sack of dried lavender and lifted it to his nose to cover the scent of blood and sweat. "Please, sit down."

"No," Killian shook his head, shutting the door with a soft click and leaning against it.

"Can't make it to the chair? Pity. I was so looking forward to getting to know my remaining grandson," Lord Alasdair taunted, leaning back in his chair lazily.

Rage once again flowed through Killian's veins, tinting the room red. Stiffly, he limped over to the plush chair and sat in it gingerly. He was lifting his head to look at Lord Alasdair, but all he saw was a flash of silver. With a small cry, Killian leaned to the side in an attempt to dodge the knife. It was semi-successful; the knife that was destined for his heart instead pierced his shoulder.

"Yes, it seems I already know you." Lord Alasdair yanked the knife from Killian's body, eliciting another quiet cry. "You're predictable, gullible, and easily manipulated. Much like your mother, actually. It's really quite lovely that you look like her. I got to fuck her, but I never got to watch her die. Watching you die will be second best, of course, but a man has to take what he can."

"You won't get anything," Killian groaned, pressing his hand firmly over his shoulder. "You'll die alone and terrified, and then you'll burn in the fires of hell for eternity."

Lord Alasdair chuckled, leaning backwards once again. "You really don't know when to give up, do you, boy? I would say that you'll reach the fires of hell first at this rate."

With great effort, Killian pushed himself to his feet again, staggering back a few steps and drawing his knife.

His grandfather chuckled. "You still think that you can kill me? Very persistent. Just like your mother. I'm so glad I got to know her so... intimately." He studied Killian's face in amusement.

"You're a monster," Killian panted, feeling sick. Whether it was from pain, blood-loss, the smell of lavender, or just his grandfather's presence, Killian wasn't sure.

"Monsters win," Lord Alasdair said with a shrug and a smirk.

"How the hell did you get like this?" Killian snapped.

Lord Alasdair smiled again, a feral smile. "There was a woman once. A gorgeous woman. I saw her first when she was a beautiful child, then later when she tried to kill the king and I stopped her. I restrained her as she tried to plunge her knife into his heart, and I felt how she felt against me, and suddenly, I was a different man. I was _alive_. I went to see her every day in prison, although she hardly ever saw me. I just wanted to study her; she was so beautiful. I dreamed about her every night. I dreamed of taking her and then ruling the kingdom together. She was the key to everything, to my dreams of love and to my dreams of power. But then, a foolish man freed her, ran off with her, and married her, when she was _mine_. I was the one who worked with the king to spare her for so long, insisting that she could be useful. I was the one who risked my life and my position in court just so that I could continue to look upon her face. I only spoke to her once, to offer her freedom if she would be mine. She refused and spat in my face. She was a fiery woman. Oddly, that made me love her even more. She told me that a princess could never lie with a snake. So, instead, she lay with that great oaf Jonathan Daaé and conceived your mother and that drunk."

Killian stared at his grandfather, taking in this new information in a daze.

"Then I killed her. I personally left court just so that I could watch her die. I took her body back with me," he added dreamily. "I buried it in a place that only I know, so that I could visit her as often as I wished."

"Y-you're insane," Killian stammered, feeling even more nauseated with each word.

"Before her, I only had power. My father told me that a man was nothing without it, so I yearned for it above else. She changed that and made me alive. Then, all I had left was power again. I've maintained it well, have I not? And now, I've completely exterminated Katherine's bloodline. Or, I will, as soon as you die. I should've had her and you shouldn't have existed. I'm remedying that mistake very well, aren't I? And soon, I'll take the throne, and I'll take her place, and she'll regret the day she rejected me."

"I don't think she can regret anything now that you've murdered her. That seems like a slight loophole in your great plan," Killian snorted.

"She can," Lord Alasdair replied confidently with another smile, folding his hands together lazily at his chest.

Killian felt as though everything had fit into place. This missing piece of information seemed to explain everything; all of the misfortune, all of the death, his grandfather's strange obsession with his mother. It was sickening and terrifying, but it made sense.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"And that was why he hated your father too, even though he was his own son," Emma realized, clapping her hands to her mouth. "I was wondering how any parent could hate their child and want him dead, but now I understand. Your father got what Lord Alasdair wanted and could never have."

"Probably because my mother was kind and my father wasn't quite as much as a mad, obsessive rapist," Killian commented drily. "But yes, I would assume as much."

Emma shook her head in amazement. "That is so screwed up."

Killian smiled ruefully. "Exactly my thoughts when I heard."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Well, now that we've established that you're certifiably mad," Killian groaned, lifting his left hand and the knife shakily. "Perhaps I can right some of the wrongs you've done to my family. That was as good of a confession as I shall ever receive, I imagine. If I ever needed more justification for executing you for murder and corruption, you've just supplied it. Thank you for saving me from any qualms I might have had in dispatching you."

"Good luck," Lord Alasdair challenged, picking up his own knife.

Before Killian could react, Lord Alasdair was up and slashing at him. Killian barely dodged the knife. Lord Alasdair was fast for an old madman, and Killian was certainly not in his best shape after days of torture.

"You killed my entire family," he said out loud, hoping that the words would give him strength. He slashed at his grandfather. "My grandmother." He blocked another hit. "My grandfather." This hit sliced into his side, if only by a millimetre. Still, with all of his other injuries, it was hardly a helpful addition. "My father." Killian winced. "My mother." This attack connected with Lord Alasdair, creating a long slice through his eyebrow and cheek. "My Aunt and Uncle. And they weren't even biologically _related_ to us." Killian picked up the pace, ignoring the ache in his body. "My other aunt and uncle. I have to give you credit for that one, because I hear Uncle Connor was actually a halfway decent bloke before you got your hands on him." Lord Alasdair was starting to struggle. "And that killed Lyanna." His voice vibrated with fury at this point. He sent his grandfather's knife skittering across the floor. "Then you killed Sari." Killian sliced his other cheek, mirroring the scar on his own, also grace à Lord Alasdair. "And my child." He plunged the his knife into Lord Alasdair's shoulder. "And Liam." He plunged the knife into his other shoulder, feeling a strange delight in his grandfather's screams.

"So..." Killian stood over his grandfather, considering. "What should I cut next? Or would you like to beg?"

Lord Alasdair started to laugh, a deep belly laugh. "You're a Larkin after all, boy. I should have given you a chance. You could be just like me."

Killian growled. "Never."

"You'd really kill your own grandfather?" Lord Alasdair asked, eyes glistening with plots and plans that Killian could almost read. "You never seemed the type to murder an old man, never mind your own blood. Your mother certainly wasn't."

"You killed your son, his wife, her brother, your grandson-" Killian lifted his knife, readying himself for the death blow. "And the next time you mention my mother, I'll cut your tongue out. There was a time when I wouldn't have killed you. In fact, if you recall, I convinced my father to spare your life. If I can't do that anymore, you have only yourself to blame."

For the first time, Killian saw some suppressed panic in his grandfather's usually dead eyes. "Wait! What would you like? A lordship? To be my heir?"

Killian plunged his knife into his grandfather's heart, watching as the life drained out of his grandfather's pale eyes. He fell to the floor with a thump, leaving Killian standing over him with grim satisfaction.

"No. I want my family," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. He felt like a child again, back when his father had abandoned him. All he wanted was to go home. He wanted this to be a dream. He wanted to wake up again at seven years old, to crawl into his parents' bed and snuggle against them and have this nightmare end.

Unfortunately, Killian knew that his body could never hurt this much in a dream.

With a final withering glare at the still form of his grandfather, Killian spat on the body. After a moment's hesitation, he also took one of his grandfather's rings.

"I will never be like you," he swore softly.

Then he limped out of the castle. He was only a few streets away when he collapsed and fell into darkness.

* * *

As always, thanks for reading. I went a little bit _Princess Bride-_ish there, I'll admit, but it was worth it. Please leave a review if you enjoyed! I'm not quite done. I know this has turned into quite the beast, but I'm going to cover up to Milah's death in the past and Emma and Killian's return to the present in the present. I had a question messaged to me about that, and I just thought I'd let you all know! If I do Neverland, it would likely be a sequel. I have no plans for that right now, and I know that if it took me 31 chapters to get this far, it would probably take me two hundred years to cover two hundred more years of Killian's life. Anyway, thanks for your support!


	32. A Quick Note

Hey Guys,

Thanks for continuing to follow this.

I know I haven't posted for a while, and I wanted to apologize and explain.

A friend of mine died recently in a head-on collision. She was a very young university graduate, and she'd only gotten her license the day before. Still, the accident wasn't her fault (a car drifted over the line on a two-lane highway, and she didn't have time to get out of the way). It was an entirely unexpected freak accident, and I'm having a bit of difficulty dealing with it.

Anyway, I haven't forgotten about all of you, but I'm just taking a bit of time to take care of myself and grieve properly. I should update again within the next few weeks.

As always, thank you for your patience and sticking with this even when my posting is so ridiculously unreliable.


	33. Chapter 32

The Present

* * *

Killian paused to smirk as Emma's stomach growled very audibly for at least the tenth time that morning.

"Would you like to stop to eat, or eat while we walk?" He asked, already digging in his bottomless pockets.

"Let's keep going," Emma decided. While part of her desperately wanted to rest, another part of her was anxious that Mary Margaret - or should she say Snow White? - would reach the castle first and run into trouble without them there to help. Based on her luck in the last twenty-four hours alone, she definitely felt like going with the safer option. Still, this ridiculous, constricting dress was not making for a pleasant walk.

"Here you are, Swan," Killian said, presenting her with something that looked suspiciously like-

"Crackers?" Emma snorted incredulously. "You have crackers in the Enchanted Forest?"

Killian's eyebrows crept together in confusion. "Crackers? What the bloody hell are crackers?"

"These!" Emma waved one of his lunch offerings in front of his nose.

"What sort of a strange term is that?" Killian chuckled. "Crackers," he muttered in derision, as though the word was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard.

"Well, what do you call it?" Retorted Emma.

"Hardtack, of course," he replied, as if it were obvious.

Emma stopped walking to stare at him. "Seriously? You're going to pretend that a name like 'hardtack' is better than 'crackers'?"

"Aye," Killian agreed with a nod. "As you can see, it's of a firm consistency. And it's tack." At Emma's blank look, he shook his head in exasperation. "Food, Swan! Tack is a term for food on the high seas. Surely you've heard of it before."

"Do I look like an ancient pirate?" Emma demanded. "Of course I haven't."

"Ancient?!" He repeated indignantly.

Emma folded her arms defensively. "And what doesn't make sense about 'crackers'? They make a cracking sound when you bite them!"

Killian rolled his eyes. "Oh, wonderful. Aye, let's name everything after sounds. We can have munchers and crunchers. We can call all beverages slurpers."

"Slurpees."

"Excuse me?"

"We actually have a drink called Slurpees."

Emma couldn't hold back a laugh at Killian's disgusted expression. It looked as though he considered the drink's name to be a personal insult. She laughed even harder as he took a bite of his cracker, his disgust seeming to deepen at the sound it made when it broke. Finally, after chewing and swallowing with the same expression of distaste, he shook his head in resignation.

"Your dialect is truly baffling."

"You'll get used to it," Emma assured him with a grin.

"Doubtful," he replied matter-of-factly.

"What? Too hard for someone as old as you to learn something new?" She teased, moving to elbow him lightly in the ribs before remembering that he still had a knife wound there.

He smiled a small half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Hardly. It's just doubtful that I'll remain in your world for long once we return, assuming I can find a portal back."

"Oh," Emma said, feeling her stomach sink. She quickly reminded herself that she had no reason to be disappointed; it wasn't like she was going to be in Storybrooke anyway. Still, she'd come back to visit. She wanted a normal life, but that didn't mean that she never wanted to see her parents again, and Henry would want to see Regina. It would be strange to come back and not see Hook there, she realized. Somehow, she'd gotten used to him being around, and the thought of him not being there made her feel strangely... off. Still, it wasn't like she could ask him to stay. He'd made it clear how he felt about her, and she was unwilling to reciprocate.

"Eat up, Swan," Killian changed the subject quickly and with false enthusiasm. "I seem to recall that your stomach has been more vocal than you usually are for the past little while, and, while that's quite an achievement, I should hate to see you waste away."

This time, Emma really did elbow him, completely forgetting about the hole in his side.

He doubled over briefly with a quiet groan. When he straightened back up again, his face was pale, making his eyes look even bluer than usual, and sweat was beading along his forehead.

"I'm so sorry!" Emma exclaimed, eyeing him in concern.

"It's fine, Swan, really," Killian gritted out. "Probably deserved it."

Emma shook her head, suddenly angry at him and angry at herself. She was angry at him for saying something so stupid, and she was angry at herself for making him feel that way. She knew she hadn't been treating him particularly kindly in an effort to keep him at a distance and due to her own trust issues. Still, despite her perfectly valid reasons, guilt was worming its way unpleasantly through her gut.

The worst part, though was that he didn't seem to realize the turmoil he'd caused her through his words, unless he just chose to disregard her guilt.

"I never really pegged you as a picky eater, Swan. Too refined a lady for 'crackers', hmm?" He changed the subject abruptly, although the challenging words and smirk lost much of their nonchalance from the strain in his voice.

"Killian..." Emma began awkwardly.

"Aye, love?" His eyebrow hopped up on his pale forehead. It was only now that Emma became aware of just how close together their faces were.

She opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she meant to say - whether an apology, an attempt at comfort, or something else - died on her lips.

"Um..." She stalled, fidgeting slightly with her sleeve as his disconcertingly blue eyes drilled into her. "I was just thinking..."

"About?" Killian prompted.

Emma slowly started to walk forwards again, pulling them out of whatever stasis they'd been stuck in. "You're good at stalling, but, seriously, you left me with a huge cliffhanger. What happened next?"

If Killian sensed her avoidance of her actual thoughts, he said nothing, for which Emma was grateful.

"Cliffhanger?" And just like that, with Hook's confusion, their familiar pattern of banter returned.

"Seriously? You don't know what that is?" Emma teased, pushing away guilt in favour of relief.

"Oh, I'm sure that I could hazard a guess based on the other strangely literal terms of your dialect, but perhaps you would care to enlighten me," Killian said with a small smile.

"You left off at a part where I have no idea what will happen next. It's killing me," Emma explained quickly.

To her surprise, Killian chuckled. "Of course you know what happened. I'm alive now, aren't I?"

"Just tell me what happened!"

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian had been in pain before. He'd dealt with years of abuse at the hands of his uncle, not to mention navy floggings and near-starvation. Still, when he woke up after killing his grandfather, he could honestly say that he'd never felt worse. Everything hurt, almost as though a horse had trampled him multiple times before dragging him through thorns and throwing him off a cliff. Killian hated horses, which was perhaps why that particular thought came to mind.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Why?"

Killian closed his eyes as though asking the heavens for patience. Several seconds later, he asked, "If I left you in such suspense, why do you feel the need to interrupt already?"

Emma shot him a glare.

* * *

The Past - 1818

* * *

Killian hadn't needed to ride horses for his time in the army. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how one viewed the situation, the king couldn't be bothered to give horses to the child soldiers, not that they'd know how to ride anyway.

No, Killian had learned much later after being reunited with Liam. His brother had discovered the serious gap in his knowledge after joking that he had to make up for years of missed birthdays by giving him a really great present.

"Perhaps I should give you a horse," he mused, although Killian thought he was joking. Probably. Hopefully.

Killian snorted. "A lot of good that would do me in the navy."

"What about when you're on land? What if we want to travel?" Liam replied easily.

"Then walking would suffice, I'm certain," he told his big brother sternly.

Liam narrowed his eyes, before letting out a heart laugh from his belly. "Oh, I see. You don't know how to ride!"

"Of course I don't," Killian retorted. "Where would I have learned?"

His brother stared. "That was only a jest. You actually don't know how?"

Killian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'll repeat for the older gentleman who seems to be experiencing premature hearing loss; where would I have learned?"

At that, Liam had spluttered indignantly, running his hand through his hair as he always did when he was agitated.

Of course, the next day, Liam had to drag him to the stables of the army and force him onto one of the great beasts. He declared that he couldn't allow anyone related to him to lack such basic knowledge.

The horse was a huge, unruly beast with quite a mean streak. Once he had actually managed to mount the monster, which turned out to be quite the ordeal, learning to ride him was unexpectedly difficult. Of course, Killian managed it, and rode from then on whenever he needed to, but loathed every second of it. He hated the stench of the unclean beasts. He hated the way they sent you bouncing around and made you lose all shreds of dignity. He certainly got more seasick from the animal's lurching and rocking than from the gentle hand of the sea.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"They do smell," Emma agreed through a surprisingly edible mouthful of hardtack. She had never ridden a horse herself, but she had been close enough to glean _that_ tidbit of information.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian's throat was dry, and every inch of him that could possibly hurt was hurting.

In fact, when Killian woke up, he was so disappointed that he didn't open his eyes right away. He had hoped that he'd be dead, but he had little hope for an afterlife and didn't believe that any afterlife would hurt this much. Instead of opening his eyes, he ran through every curse word he knew alphabetically, which at least helped to distract him until his ears picked up on the quiet conversation at his bedside.

"'e can 'ardly be angry with you when we saved 'is life," a faintly familiar accented voice said, continuing a conversation that Killian had obviously missed the first part of.

"He'll think of it as a betrayal even so," a man replied miserably.

"Who betrayed me and why?" Killian growled without opening his eyes.

A heavy silence fell over him, which would have made him roll his eyes if they had been open.

"You're awake, Captain. How are you feeling?" Asked the second voice hesitantly. It was familiar as well, even more than the first speaker.

"How the bloody hell do you think? What did you do?!" Demanded Killian, eyes flying open to take in a small room lit only by faint firelight.

In the dim light, the two figures exchanged a glance. Killian didn't feel his mood improve at the sight of Jacques Moineau and a guilty-looking Owen. It took only seconds for him to put two and two together. "Ah."

Owen swallowed with some difficulty. "I'm sorry, Kill- Captain. When you told me what you planned to do, I thought you could use some assistance, so I-"

"Contacted Captain Moineau?" Killian finished sourly.

"At your service," agreed Jacques with black-toothed grin.

Silence fell once again as Owen eyed his former friend nervously. "Killian?"

He grunted in response.

"Are you angry?"

Killian considered the question. Of course, he was angry. He was angry that his entire family was dead. He was angry that everyone he cared for was dead. He was angry that King Julian was still king and that Lord Alasdair had to face his grandson's justice rather than the justice of the kingdom, if only because the kingdom was corrupt. He was angry that he hadn't killed Giselle and that she had manipulated him so effectively. He was angry that he now apparently owed his life to the first man to screw his mother and a man who would befriend a dishonourable monster like his father.

"No," Killian said finally. "I'm not."

Owen visibly sagged with relief.

"You saved my life, Owen, and I'm grateful," he added carefully, before turning to Jacques. "I owe you my gratitude as well, although I still can't understand why you would help me."

"I told you; it is a favour for old friends," Jacques told him surprisingly gently. "Not everyone is without honour."

"I suppose I also owe you an apology, Owen. I was harsh with you before, when you're really one of the few friends I have left. It was courageous of you to defy me, and I won't forget it," Killian added to his friend, who nodded shortly.

"Thank you."

Stories were exchanged then, of breaking and entering, murder, and midnight rescues. Owen and Jacques had arrived at the city some days before Killian's escape from his cell, but waited to formulate a plan. When bells had sounded in the castle, warning of an escaped prisoner, the two had flown into action. Killian didn't know what sort of sadistic God was controlling his life, but the two rescuers had stumbled across him in the streets as they moved towards the castle.

They left only a day after Killian woke up after raiding his and Liam's old apartment for their belongings, mercifully untouched. They didn't dare stay any longer, in spite of Killian's condition, since they knew that soldiers would be searching for him.

When Killian limped back onto the deck of his ship, it was with a rush of relief and safety that felt peculiarly like home. True, it wasn't the same sort of home that he'd had with his parents, Ciarra, or Liam, but it felt faintly like home all the same. Owen had helped him carry the few belongings he had brought from the city into his quarters, where he set them up with care. The bits and pieces left over from his old family hurt, true, but they needed to be there and hurt, if only so that he could remember them.

Owen was promoted to first mate soon after. The former first mate was displeased, of course, but after being threatened with a keel-hauling, he quieted down with his complaints.

As for Jacques, Killian dropped him off at his own ship, moored some leagues away.

"If I can ever return the favour of your assistance-" Killian began in place of a farewell.

"I expect nothing more nor less than your friendship," Jacques promised. And, for the first time, Killian believed him.

Jacques turned to his ship, a beautiful vessel, with a small smile.

"Jacques! Took you long enough! We were worried that you wouldn't come back!" Called a handsome young red-haired man from the deck.

"Ah, Guillaume! I was 'alf expecting you to leave without me," Jacques teased, crossing the gangplank with ease.

Guillaume laughed and pulled Jacques into a hug, while a pretty brunette watched from the side with a fond expression. When she caught Owen's eye, she waved at him vigorously.

Killian noticed that Owen watched them somewhat wistfully. For a moment, Killian thought he detected some bitterness on Owen's face, but it was there so fleetingly that he figured that he must have imagined it.

Nevertheless, Killian felt that he had to say something. "You can go with them, if you prefer."

The offer wasn't an easy one to make. Killian was still weak and in a lot of pain with weeks to go before he felt functional again. Letting go of someone like Owen, who he had actually found it in himself to trust, was a terrifying thought.

Owen turned to him in surprise before shaking his head quickly. "God, no. Never. I couldn't."

Killian was surprised by the ferocity of his refusal and followed his friend's gaze as a result, right to Guillaume and his beautiful lover. "Oh."

Owen shook his head ruefully, before turning back to the deck and getting to work.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma shook her head sadly. "He fell in love with the woman? On the way to save... whatever his name was? Guillaume?"

To her surprise, Killian smirked. "Well, you're close."

"What do you mean?" Emma demanded.

"He didn't fall in love with Lisette," he clarified. "Nor did he fall in love on the trip to save Guillaume."

"So..." Emma prompted.

"He fell in love with Guillaume on the return trip," Killian explained.

"Oh." Emma replied in surprise. "Poor Owen."

"Aye. Guillaume was madly in love with Lisette, and I think it about broke Owen's heart," Killian confirmed, sympathy flooding his expression for his old friend. "Love can be cruel, it seems."

Emma got the sense that he was talking about more than Owen.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"I'm sorry, mate," Killian told him that evening as they sat on the deck under a tapestry of stars that reflected into the sea.

Owen shrugged. "There are plenty of other men out there. Surely I'll find someone else, eventually."

Despite his hopeful words, he took a deep swig of rum from a bottle before passing it to Killian, who had started to take a liking to the drink. The spicy taste had grown on him, but more than that, he was grateful for its capabilities in numbing the pain from his recent stint in prison. He drank from it gratefully, musing that perhaps they should have brought a second bottle.

Killian attempted to arrange his face into some sort of encouraging expression as he nodded. Despite the darkness, it was obvious that Killian had failed; Owen let out a loud bark of laughter.

"Optimism doesn't suit you, Killian. It never did. But I appreciate the effort, all the same. Still, who knows? Maybe that pessimism will bring you happiness some day."

"I have good reason to be a pessimist," Killian reminded his friend. "Everyone I've loved has died. Being realistic just means that I'll deal with less pain later."

Later, Killian would blame the rum for his honesty. Heart-to-hearts weren't necessarily his thing, but perhaps it was a mark of how desperate he was to have someone - anyone - to talk to that he would discuss this with Owen after just recently rekindling their friendship. Still, Owen was the only person that Killian had left to talk to that he trusted, so it wasn't like he had many options.

"No, I meant that you won't expect something wonderful to happen, which will make it much better when it does," Owen explained. "For all you know, happiness could be just around the corner. I bet it is."

At the time, Killian laughed ruefully and teased Owen for his truly disgusting optimism.

In a way, though, Owen was right. Maybe happiness wasn't just around the corner, but it _was_ waiting just several leagues North in a small village with a stifled, miserable, free spirited woman and her failing marriage.

* * *

Thanks so much for your patience. :)

I am so grateful for all of you who continue to read this. Thank you to everyone for your kind comments regarding my last note.

I'll try to do my bit and turn out chapters faster now!


	34. Chapter 33

Again, at this point, I'm not sure if I need to issue warning, but there is some extremely mature stuff in this chapter. I won't go into too much detail (nothing will be graphic), but there is a reference to a very mature situation in this chapter. If that will bother you, read with caution.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Two years passed. Of course, in that amount of time, things changed. Members of his crew died and new pirates joined. Ships were sunk, battles were fought, treasures were stolen, and the notoriety of the young captain rose. It wasn't the only thing that rose, of course; soon the king's price on his head grew to an unimaginable sum, which only filled Killian with a great deal of satisfaction. After all, if the king wanted him dead, that had to mean that he was doing something right.

He met Milah when he was just barely twenty-three.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You had no girlfriends between Ciarra and Milah?" Emma asked. She couldn't help but be somewhat skeptical about this considering what a flirt her companion was nowadays.

"I had a few," Killian conceded with a smirk.

"And?"

If possible, his smirk widened even further. "Curious about my romantic history, Swan? Never fear; they're all long dead and buried."

Emma shot him a poisonous look. "You wish. I just think it's cheating to skip two years of your life like that."

"If the lady says so," he said with a wink that made Emma want to shove him into a particularly thorny bush.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Over those two years, Killian spent very little time in any relationship of any length. Mostly, any romantic encounters were brief ventures that ended amicably with the dawn.

* * *

The Present

* * *

It didn't take much stretch of the imagination for Emma to understand the implication. _Trust Killian to make sleeping with prostitutes sound so romantic._

* * *

The Past

* * *

However, one of those nightly ventures led to something more sustained in the form of a dark-haired beauty named Esmeralda. It was a brief and passionate romance that could have amounted to something bigger in a different time or circumstance. However, both were simply trying to fill a hole left by a painful past through physical intimacy, which worked for a time but fulfilled neither person in the long term. In addition, Esmeralda had managed to maintain a sense of optimism that made Killian feel positively nauseated when he was exposed to it in large doses. The relationship ended quite amicably and mutually several months after its birth, and the two remained friends for years afterward.

Next came a feisty red-haired pirate aboard Killian's ship by the name of Jill. She joined along with her sister after being disowned by her parents. It took a long time to discover why, but eventually Jill confessed that she and her sister had been falsely accused of robbing a man in their town.

"I figured that if everyone thought we were robbers, we might as well just become them," she said with a nonchalant shrug contradicted by the angry glint in her eyes.

"Angry" was really the perfect way to describe Jill. She often appeared to be calm, and her voice rarely raised to a shout, but waves of anger radiated off of her constantly. It made her a ferocious, ruthless pirate and an ardent lover, but Killian ultimately became a bit disillusioned with her views of the world, which often clashed with his own. Above all, Killian aimed to maintain some sense of honour and justice; Jill's view seemed to be that the world was devoid of both, and thus deserved neither from her. Things ended a bit less pleasantly between them, but they were eventually able to make peace with each other, mostly because Jill's twin was unwilling to find a new ship and captain to work under. Allowing Jill to beat him at sparring seemed to help as well; there's nothing like giving your ex-lover a few bruises to take away your resentment.

However, Killian felt from the start that Milah was special, in a way that even Ciarra hadn't been. It wasn't something that he could fully explain, but simply something that he knew. It was a feeling that came on so slowly that by the time Killian could pinpoint that it was there, he couldn't name its beginning. Perhaps it had began as young children in a snowy alleyway. Perhaps it started as adolescents in a theatre, or the first time he saw her again as an adult, or any of the other countless moments at the start of their relationship that had now burned their way into his memory.

Meeting Milah again was an accident, and if fate ever had a hand in anything, Killian imagined it must have been their reacquaintance. He didn't mean to see her again, no more than she meant to see him. He never would have docked at that port if there hadn't been a huge storm coming, but he simply didn't have time to take his ship somewhere other than that small, Northern farming town. As for that particular street, who could say why he chose it? He was feeling particularly morose that evening, perhaps because Liam's birthday was approaching or simply because the heavens had opened up to piss on him. Either way, he ended up leaving the town's one tavern early that evening, leaving his friends amongst his crew to enjoy their alcohol without a moody companion.

It was dark, so at first he didn't even notice that anything was amiss. Then he heard some scuffling, some pleading before it was quickly muffled, and then the sound of fabric ripping.

Killian froze, shivering slightly in the rain. Part of him wanted to just go to bed and ignore whatever was going on, but the pleading had been from a woman. Whoever she was, something was happening that was hurting her in some way. While he had no particular desire to get into a fight this evening, he knew that he couldn't just stand by and let what he suspected was happening happen.

He set his jaw and started off towards the noise. The scrambling was now becoming more frantic. He heard a curse, a "would you hold her still?", and then, making his blood boil, a laugh.

As he got closer, the shadows turned into the form of a man holding a struggling woman from behind while another was in front of her, clearly with less than honourable intentions. Even in the dark, Killian could tell that the woman had put up quite a fight; her hair was a mess, her dress was ripped to reveal more of her than was socially acceptable, and he could swear that he saw scratches bleeding down her captor's face.

Angrily, Killian shoved the first man in the shoulder, making him stumble away. "It's very bad form to mistreat a woman, _mate_," he said icily.

"Stay out of this and you won't get hurt," the man bit back.

"Coincidentally, I was going to give you the same warning," Killian shrugged, drawing his knife slowly so that he could appreciate the way the man flinched at the hiss of the metal against its scabbard.

The men were nothing more than farmers, he thought with some satisfaction as he watched their eyes widen. They were big thugs who were used to getting their way due to their size, but likely the most fighting experience either would have would be a tavern brawl.

The man holding the poor woman, who was breathing hard against the hand over her mouth, looked nervously towards his companion.

"You're bluffing. You won't get away with murder in our streets," he stammered.

"He just wants her for himself," the other man sneered. "He's a pirate."

"If I wanted a woman for the night, I would go to the brothel and buy one. I'm a pirate, not dishonourable, uneducated scum. I know better than to just pick a woman off the streets for my pleasure," he replied easily.

In fact, on his ship, Killian had a strict policy on rape; do it, and be keel-hauled. He knew he was unusual in that way for a pirate captain, but there was simply no way that he could believe in good form and still allow something so base and pathetic. Besides, after hearing about Lord Alasdair and his mother, the thought of anyone being forced into anything of the kind against his or her will repulsed him.

At this point, the woman's attacker seemed to realize that he'd been insulted. He rushed at Killian, who sidestepped easily and tripped the man, sending him crashing to his knees. Before he could even begin to get up again, Killian's dagger was it the man's throat.

"Release the lady or I'll skewer your friend," he told the man who held her.

The man stepped away from her as though he'd been burned.

"Now," Killian continued softly, "perhaps I ought to teach you two a lesson."

The man at the end of his knife whimpered, filling Killian with even more disgust.

Carefully, he repositioned his knife to the man's forehead and created a deep gash. The man howled, even though it would do no permanent damage except to scar.

"You're nothing," he hissed in his ear, before releasing him. The other man had already started running.

As soon as both of the men had disappeared into the shadows, Killian turned to the woman, who was eyeing him warily in the dark and attempting to keep herself covered. Killian approached her slowly, but she still flinched away and stayed hidden in the shadows. He had the feeling from her nervous, jerky movements that she was trying to decide whether to run, attack him, or accept his help.

"I won't hurt you," he promised, shrugging out of his heavy coat. "Here."

"Thank you," she muttered in a shaky but lilting voice, avoiding his eyes. She still accepted his coat, though. "So you aren't planning to molest me?"

"If I'd wanted to, giving you my coat would have been a poor choice. Besides, it's far too cold here. I'd take you somewhere warm before I molested you."

Killian could clearly hear the frown in her voice. "Oh, of course. That's very comforting."

"Don't worry, love, I was only joking," he told her. "Thought maybe you could use a laugh."

His words ended up having the opposite effect that he'd planned. Instead of laughing or rolling her eyes, the woman sat down on the puddle-and-mud-filled street and started sobbing. They were quiet sobs, but that didn't make them less alarming.

In a rare turn of events, Killian found himself lost for words. After several awkward minutes of watching the woman cry in the puddle, Killian finally approached her again nervously.

"Look, lass, why don't I take you home?" He offered gently.

The woman shook her head tiredly. "No."

Killian tried not to be offended. "I told you, love, I won't hurt you. I'll just make sure you get home without any further incident." _And get my coat back_, he added as an afterthought in his head.

"I would rather drown myself than go home," the woman declared, almost unintelligibly through her sobs.

Killian privately thought that drowning herself in the puddle would be a difficult feat, but he decided to keep that opinion to himself.

"I can take you somewhere else," he tried, scratching nervously behind his ear.

"No." She shook her head again, tangled and loose hair flopping around her face like a protective curtain.

"Well, you can't just stay in a mud puddle," Killian threw his hands up in annoyance.

The woman didn't even bother to answer. She just buried her sodden head further into his coat.

For a moment, there was no sound but the rain and the woman's quiet cries. Killian wracked his brains for a solution, trying to remember what strategies he'd used to get Lyanna to do something that she didn't want to do (in the rare situations that she disobeyed). In the end, though, it wasn't deep thought that spurred his next idea, but rather simply annoyance with the rain. All he wanted to do was go back to his ship.

"Why don't you come with me back to my ship?" He suggested. "There should be a spare dress for you to borrow."

The woman froze. "From another woman you've taken 'somewhere warm' to molest?"

Killian sighed, rubbing his temples where a stress-headache was starting to form. "I told you, lass, that was only a jest. There are female members of my crew."

The woman hesitated for a moment. Then, just as Killian was considering picking her up and _carrying_ her to his ship, she stood stiffly and nodded at him to lead the way. Really, in spite of the situation and crying only moments before, Killian thought that she showed a remarkable sense of dignity.

They picked their way through the wet and dirty streets. No stars in the sky lit their way, and the few lanterns outside of homes and shops did little to lift the oppressive darkness. Killian offered his arm more than once to the woman, but she flinched away each time. More than once, he was afraid he'd lost her in the dark, but he'd always find her again from the sound of her wet footfalls or quiet breaths, or even a slight shadow against a wall. When they reached his ship, he led her into his quarters and busied himself lighting some candles. The woman stayed with her back to him, rain trailing its way through soaked curls and onto the wooden floor. He wondered if she was too ashamed to meet his eyes, or if she was too afraid.

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes," he said gruffly. "I'll be back in a moment."

He picked out the first dress of Jill's that he could find, hoping that she wouldn't be too upset so long as he bought her a new one. He came back to find the woman in exactly the same position as before, with the only difference being the size of the puddle at her feet. Somehow, she'd managed to lose a single shoe, and the other was certainly ruined from the rain. With a sigh, Killian draped the dress over his chair, before leaving once again to find stockings.

When he returned with stockings, rum, and some food in hand, he paused at the door. He imagined that it would be a very bad idea to intrude on the woman while she was changing by accident, particularly considering why she was on his ship in the first place. He would call out her name to check if she was finished, but he didn't know it.

"Are you decent?" He asked finally.

Much to his annoyance, she didn't answer. Carefully, he placed his ear against the door to see if he could hear any rustling.

Instead, he heard humming. The woman was tearily humming in a light, airy voice. Her voice was quite nice, but that wasn't what surprised him.

He knew that tune, and there was only one other person who knew it: Milah, the woman he had written it for.

Killian knocked abruptly before entering, about to demand where the woman had heard the song. Surely, she must have learned it from Milah, which meant that she had to be close by. Was it possible that his childhood friend was still alive? It had been years since he'd thought of her, but the song brought back an abundance of memories and an ache for times long past.

The woman turned to face in surprise, and, for the first time, the two saw each other face to face.

"Killian?" The woman asked in amazement, grey eyes wide.

"Milah," Killian breathed, equally surprised.

She looked different than she had nearly a decade ago, but he recognized her nonetheless. Certainly, she had aged. Lines had appeared on her face where before there was only smooth skin. A mouth that had been a bit more prone to smiling fit more naturally into a frown, and eyes that used to sparkle with mischief were now tired. Still, much was the same, from wild hair to sharp features to eyes that always seemed to see much more than the rest of the world did. In spite of everything, Killian thought she had grown more beautiful with time; she had been pretty before, he supposed, but now she was beautiful.

Killian couldn't help but wonder what Milah saw. He was surprised that she had recognized him, except perhaps from that telltale scar on his cheek.

For a moment, the two stared, as though afraid that the other would disappear if they even blinked. Then, a tear started to trace its way down Milah's face.

"I didn't think I'd see you again, and certainly not like this," she whispered, hugging her arms around herself.

New anger flooded Killian's heart. "Why were-"

"And you're a pirate now. I certainly didn't see that coming," Milah chuckled, a genuine smile flitting briefly across her face.

"Nor did I," Killian admitted.

Milah shook her head. "Remember when I asked you what you wanted to do when you grew up? I don't recall pirate being the answer." Then she laughed fully. "My God, what would Liam say?"

Killian didn't blame her for saying that. Of course, she had last seen Liam when they had been very small, and he had been the voice of disapproval to their thieving ways. At that age, it had seemed as though he were just trying to spoil their game, because survival really had just been a game back then. At least, it had been a game compared to the difficulty of survival as adults. Milah didn't know that Killian and Liam had ever even met again, and she certainly had no way of knowing that Liam was dead.

As a result, even though a twinge of pain flitted through Killian's chest, he didn't lash out at Milah the way he would've at someone else.

"He never had the chance to say anything about it; he's dead," he said instead.

Milah looked stricken. "No."

Killian nodded in a quick, painful jerk.

She gripped the back of the desk chair and pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "I never... I can't believe... it sounds foolish to say, but he was fine the last time I saw him and I never imagined..."

Killian could easily understand what she was getting at; she never imagined that she would never see him again. Oddly, Milah was the one person that it didn't hurt to talk about Liam with. In fact, it almost brought him a sense of comfort to talk to one person who he had been close to and who really knew Liam. He imagined she was probably the only living person who fully understood what a monumental loss to the world Liam's death was. As a result, even after not seeing each other for nearly a decade, Killian found himself divulging the details around Liam's death to Milah without any prompting. She was a good listener with an expressive face that projected her thoughts like a drama on the stage. By the end, her jaw was tight and her eyes glistened with tears in the candlelight.

"I'm so sorry, Killian. I know that doesn't help, but I am. He didn't deserve to die, and you didn't deserve to lose him," she said fiercely.

She must have seen in his face that he didn't believe her, because she leaned forward and yanked his chin up firmly. Milah was never one for subtlety. "It's true."

After a moment, Killian nodded. Whether or not he believed it, it was a wonderful thing for him to hear those words. So far, the only people who'd placed any blame in regards to the situation were himself, Pan, and Giselle. For all of them, it had been easy to pin the blame on Killian. After all, he had been the one who pushed Liam to the point of poisoning himself. Milah was the first person to offer him the hope that he hadn't killed his brother after all.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"You didn't," agreed Emma. "It was a set up."

Part of her doubted that anyone had offered him any similar reassurance since Milah's death. It only seemed fair to correct his skewed point of view.

Nonetheless, he simply smiled a sad, half-smile, and continued.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Of course, Milah asked about Lyanna next. With a sigh, Killian accepted the inevitable; he was going to have to revisit many painful memories this evening to catch up his old friend. Finally, once he had answered all of her questions to her satisfaction, Killian changed the subject to what he had really wanted to ask about the second he recognized his old friend.

"Tell me, Milah, what's happened to you?" He asked quietly, searching her face intently.

At this point, Milah became somewhat uncomfortable, closing off her more relaxed posture once again and tugging at her slightly ill-fitting dress.

"Many things," she said with a shrug. She was shaking.

Killian sighed and reached for her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Tell me so that I can help you, for old times' sake."

Milah shook her head, beginning to cry again. The cries slowly escalating into deep, gut-wrenching sobs, and Killian ended up hugging her for some time, until she was calm enough to speak again.

"Oh, Killian, you have no idea how miserable I am." Now that the tears stopped, she sounded almost expressionless

He hesitated. "Was what I saw today a regular occurrence?"

She pressed her lips together tightly before forcing out her next words. "Many similar things have been going on for years."

"Why?" Killian growled.

Milah started playing with her hair, a habit from childhood that Killian remembered her doing whenever she was too embarrassed or scared to meet someone's eyes. It was strange to see something so familiar on a woman who was so familiar and yet so unfamiliar.

"Do you recall the man I told you about? The one my uncle planned for me to marry? Well, I married him and we had a child seven years ago. About that time, ogres started attacking the Northern kingdoms, if you recall, and my husband was called to war. Instead of fighting, he broke his own leg to return home in an act of unforgivable cowardice by all."

Rage filled Killian's own being. He had lost many friends, who were mere children at the time, to the violence of war. They had been terrified, but they had fought bravely nonetheless and met their fates with dignity. The thought of a grown man being unable to do the same made Killian sick. What if Owen had deserted? Then Killian would have died as a child himself. One man deserting could have made the difference to multiple lives. What sort of man left people - who were just as frightened - to their fate? That was beyond cowardice. It was a monstrous selfishness to believe that one's life was more important than every other man's, and to abandon everyone to his fate.

"He claimed it was for our child, of course. Still, can you imagine? What sort of child wants a coward for a father? Baelfire is too young to know any better than to love him, but once he grows, what shame will follow him? It already does, in truth, just as it follows me. That's why they attack me, you know. They harass me, insult me, throw things at me... all because they know that my husband is too cowardly to do anything about it. Most of them lost family in that war, which is why they're so vindictive, and I can hardly blame them. He left them to die."

Bitterness dripped from every word, and, even in the dim light, Killian could see Milah's pale eyes flashing with hurt and anger. He imagined his own were a mirror image.

"I tried so hard to be a good wife, at first. I didn't love him, but I thought I could learn to. I thought that it could be like those stories I heard from my parents before they died, when a couple changed each other for the better. I encouraged him to be brave. I bore his child. And he repaid me by destroying every hope I could have. My life is hell now, Killian. _Hell_. I keep thinking about killing myself so that I don't have to look upon his face anymore and deal with the torment of the neighbours. Just the sight of my husband disgusts me; you should see the way he limps and trembles! The only thing that stops me from killing myself is Baelfire; how much worse would his reputation be if he had a coward for a father _and_ a suicidal mother?"

"You love him very much," Killian observed, noticing the change in her tone whenever she mentioned her son.

Milah lifted her hands helplessly. "I do, but sometimes I have difficulty with it. Isn't it foolish that a mother should struggle to love her own child? But sometimes I see bits of his father in him, and then I can't help but wonder if he'll grow up to be the same: a cowardly shadow of a man. When I feel that way, I feel ill, if only because I know I shouldn't have thoughts like that about my own child. Still, I can't bear to look at him for some time after that. And then I wonder if he wouldn't be better off without me. I'm so miserable that I don't give him nearly what a child deserves. I want to, but then loathing for his father fills my soul, and I can't do it. Isn't it terrible? Still, underneath everything, I still love him, somehow... I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense."

Killian shook his head after a moment's hesitation. He could understand complicated family relationships perhaps better than anyone. "Is there anything you've tried to do to change things?"

"I've asked him to leave, Killian, so we can start over. I thought that maybe I could love him after all, or at least focus on loving my child, so long as I was away from this cursed village. Still, he's too cowardly to leave. That's the irony," she laughed wetly at this. "I'm sorry. You must think I'm terribly foolish."

After a moment's silence, Killian asked another question that was on his mind. "And what of you being an artist, Milah? Surely you must find joy in your drawings. Doesn't that at least make things bearable?"

"I don't draw anymore," Milah confessed, rubbing at her face. Wordlessly, Killian passed her a handkerchief. "I can't bring myself to do it. Everything around me is so ugly that I feel that anything I create will only be just as ugly, and why fill the world with more ugly things?"

"Nothing you make could be ugly," Killian replied quietly. His heart ached from hearing her news. He was so used to cheerful, blunt, optimistic Milah. She had been the one with the dreams, daring, and hope when they'd been children. Now she sounded almost dead. It was like whatever spark burned within her that made her different and special and alive was starting to go out.

Milah sighed dramatically, putting a brave, if unpleasant smile on her face. "I've had enough of this dreary talk, though, Killian. Tell me something else about you! Tell me about any beautiful things you've seen in your travels. I would give most anything to even just imagine something outside of sheep and muck."

And so Killian changed the subject to tropical oceans, colourful birds, daring sword fights, sparkling sand, and the smell of salt and freedom.

By the time his voice died away, the sun was starting to tinge the ocean pink and orange with the dawn, and Milah's head was resting comfortably on his shoulder as though it belonged there.

"Oh, Killian, I so wish I could go with you." She sighed.

And with those few words, Milah sparked the fire that would determine her fate.


	35. Chapter 34

I'm so sorry for disappearing off the map for a month! Here is a much longer chapter to compensate for that. My laptop had some issues and spent several weeks getting repaired, and I was also having some personal difficulties. I don't think I'll making any promises about near updates in the future just to avoid disappointing you guys. I'll get them up as fast as I can with school and everything, though!

Anyway, on a happier note, I get to thank the wonderful Trish Tavor for the first time for being my beta! I am one lucky lady to have her looking over my work. If this chapter is good, you have her to thank!

As always, thank you to all of you for sticking with this ridiculously long story.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Roosters were crowing loudly and scratching through the dirt as Killian finally took Milah home. He couldn't help but think that 'home' was a bit of a glorified word, in this case; really, Milah and her family lived in little more than a stone hovel.

Milah walked more and more slowly the further they got from his ship. When they were but a few paces from her door, Milah stopped and turned to him desperately, fiddling with her hair again. It seemed odd to see that sign of vulnerability so frequently from someone Killian had always perceived as strong and confident.

"How long will you be in town, Killian?" She questioned with a pleading note to her voice.

Killian hesitated. He had planned to leave this very afternoon. Previously, he'd seen no point in staying in a pathetic little farming town for longer than necessary. The other issue was that he could never stay in any port for very long. As a pirate, and a pirate with a high price on his head, it was extremely risky to stay anywhere for more than a night or two at most. Still, he hadn't seen Milah for years, and she was so miserable. From the faintly hopeful expression on her face, Killian believed that he could very well break her if he said goodbye so soon.

"In a week's time," he told her, and it was worth it just to see the relief on her face.

"May I see you again tonight?"

Killian nodded. "It's likely that my crew and I will go to the tavern for the evening. Perhaps you could join us."

Milah's face lit up again. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Then she threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for everything."

Killian didn't have time to fully react, so instead watched her retreating form in a sort of stunned stupor. For a moment, he lingered by the door, curiosity about her family tugging at him. What was the man who had married her truly like? He knew that what he knew of him was horribly coloured by the lens of Milah's loathing. Still, that was all he had to go on, which meant that he was currently picturing a very old, stooped man with patchy white hair and whiskers. He had a limp, of course, and watery, dull eyes. Killian imagined him a bit like an ogre in terms of intelligence. Still, he supposed that the man inside must be very different. And what of the boy? Would he look like Milah? Would he have her beautiful eyes, grey as a foggy harbour at daybreak? Would he be as precocious as Milah had been when he'd met her, weaving stories of death and destruction with the relish only a true artist could have?

All he had to do to find out was step through the door. Hell, he was a pirate. He could break down the door and slay the pathetic old man, carry off Milah and Baelfire, and live happily ever after. But would Milah want that? He'd only known her for a fraction of their lives so far, and this new Milah he'd become reacquainted with the night before had changed from her old self. Still, there was something about Milah that was so open and easy to understand. Perhaps that was why he'd always liked her. Instead of hiding herself behind a front like much of the rest of the world, Milah's true self shone through with every word she uttered. She wasn't unafraid to show herself to the world, which was perhaps the ultimate bravery. No wonder she was so unhappy with her husband!

With a sigh, Killian turned back down the dirt path towards his ship. He had much to think about.

* * *

"Mallory!" Killian barked, pounding on his first mate's door.

After a moment, a faint groan sounded through the wood. Killian bit back his disgust. He had returned to a silent ship that he would have assumed abandoned if not for the snores from the crew's quarters. Clearly, his crew had taken full advantage of their night on land. It was a good thing that Killian was postponing their departure; he shuddered at the thought of disembarking with a crew full of hungover, irritable pirates.

Killian raised his fist to pound the door again, only to have his fist almost collide with a young man who was certainly not Owen.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Killian demanded.

The young man - more of a boy, really - blushed to the roots of his hair. "Um..."

"He's just going," Owen cut in, finally reaching the door. He yawned a huge yawn as Killian took in his distinctly ruffled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes. "Just give us a second."

Killian tapped his foot impatiently as Owen kissed the man-boy farewell and sent him off with some pretty words, likely excerpts from his own verses. Then the lad slipped by Killian with his head down and a dopey smile on his face as Killian watched, unimpressed.

"I see you had a lively night, then?"

Owen grinned. "Oh, I had a delectable night. Indeed, I had a _divine_ night. The man was like Ganymede. Or Apollo. Or any of those other mythical youths and gods you hear of in literature who were far too attractive for their own good and far too good at certain... activities. Other worlds exist, Killian. Do you suppose that these gods and mythical men are simply in another world that we could go to?"

Killian shrugged. "Theoretically, I suppose it's possible."

"Or perhaps they've come here already. Perhaps that was Apollo himself."

Killian thought back to the spindly, ungainly, blushing youth and had to hold back a derisive snort.

"As fascinating as this is, Owen, I was knocking on your door for a reason."

His first mate didn't seem to hear him, and instead began crooning out more of his verses:

"_Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,_

_Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;_

_And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,_

_Love itself shall slumber on."*_

"Mallory!" Killian snapped. "Don't assume that you being my first mate - and also my mate - will keep me from punishing you if you continue this disrespect."

Owen sobered immediately. "Apologies, Captain. What can I do for you?"

Killian couldn't hold back a small smile of grim satisfaction. "Well..."

* * *

That night, Milah burst into the tavern with her eyes alight. Killian sensed the exact moment that she entered, as if something in the room had suddenly shifted. Perhaps it was her nervous energy; he could see her eyes darting over the occupants of each table in hope mingled with the visible fear of being let down once again. Killian understood the feeling. When a person's life is full of disappointments, one comes to expect only more disappointment. It was a relief to know that, for now at least, Killian himself wouldn't be bringing more misfortune to the life of his friend. In fact, a huge smile spread across Milah's expressive face the second their eyes met, and she almost ran to his table.

"Rumour has it that Airril is dead," she began breathlessly.

Owen, sitting next to Killian, choked slightly on his beer and began to cough.

"Who?" Killian queried, pulling out a chair for his companion. He made an effort to arrange his face into an expression of mild curiosity.

Milah paused for a moment, searching his face. "One of the men who attacked me last night."

"Oh," Killian said. "How unfortunate."

"Indeed," she agreed slowly, giving Killian a skeptical look that he remembered clearly from his childhood. "And the other one, Glyn, apparently had an... incident himself."

"Did he?"

Milah raised her eyebrows even further, looking up at him through her dark lashes in a way that made Killian's stomach twist. It was a look that spoke of reading minds and seeing through souls. It was also a look that told Killian that it was time to change the subject, lest he spilled all of his secrets unwittingly into the lap of the woman beside him.

"Milah, allow me to introduce my first mate, Owen Mallory," Killian drawled.

The two exchanged pleasantries as Killian now took his time to study the woman at his side. She was a vision of elegance, a queen in spite of her fraying cotton dress the colour of oatmeal. She sat with a poise that spoke of the expectation of better things. Her dark hair cascaded gently down her back, and Killian had to resist the urge to touch it to see if it was as soft as it looked. The wild curls contrasted with her dreamy, piercing eyes that were far too intelligent for a town full of imbecilic, illiterate farmers. She sat tall, with a long neck of creamy white, and yet her courtly posture - born of instinct rather than training - did not seem stiff. Milah was a woman at ease in her own skin, and it showed.

However, Killian was interested in more than her attractiveness. He knew she was beautiful; she always had been to him, even as a teenager just starting to discover his sexuality. No, he was interested in what was going on underneath all of that. She was no fool, which meant that she certainly knew that her attackers having "accidents" was no coincidence. Still, Killian was now feeling uncertain about his role in the "accidents". Very little showed on Milah's face to indicate whether or not she appreciated this intervention. Perhaps she would feel that he'd overstepped. Perhaps she now realized that the fairly innocent boy she knew had grown up to be a far less pure man, if she hadn't already realized that. She wasn't running away or rebuking him, but that could be simply due to the presence of Owen and the other people in the tavern. Her face was shuttered, and it worried him. Nevertheless, he wasn't sure that he could come to regret his decision to protect the woman beside him.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"What did you do?" Emma asked curiously. "Like, I know you killed one, but what about the other guy?"

She was expecting some sort of a snarky comment or innuendo, or, at the very least, a deflection, but it never came. Killian refused to meet her eyes, staring resolutely at the foliage surrounding them, but he answered her question.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Fortunately for Killian, Milah lived in quite a small town.

Unfortunately for her attackers, that meant that it took relatively little time for a certain angry pirate to track them down, particularly when he waved his sword around in a vaguely threatening manner.

In the daylight, Airril was much younger than Killian had anticipated. He had a face with remnants of baby fat still clinging to it, and sparse hairs grew over that baby fat in a thoroughly nauseating attempt at a beard. That and his stick-thin stature hinted at youth, as did his general maturity level, Killian mused derisively. He watched the man through his spyglass from the shadows of a house down the lane, feeling more and more disgusted with each passing second.

"Is he the one with the chicken?" Owen questioned, leaning against the wall beside him with enviable calm and catlike grace.

Killian grunted affirmatively, watching as the man slowly ended the poor creature's life. He suspected that he was dragging out the process for fun, unless he was simply clumsy with a blade.

"Ugly bloke," his first mate commented.

"Aye," agreed Killian, tucking his spyglass into his belt in a movement that was all business. "Shall we go make him uglier?"

With a shrug, Owen nodded, tailing behind him as he strode towards the door. He knocked on it once before inviting himself into the small hole of a house.

His entrance was accompanied by a cry of surprise from Airril accompanied by the sound of a dead chicken falling to the floor with a dull thud. Underneath that was the sound of a terrified gasp from a young red-headed woman in a rocking chair. Her green eyes widened almost comically at the sight of the two pirates in her home, and she gripped the armrests of the chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white within seconds.

"My lady," Killian said with a mock bow.

"P-please, sir, we haven't much money-" she began nervously.

Ariel's eyes darted around like a cornered animal, desperately searching for an escape route.

"-but you can have it all!" He finished quickly, hurrying to the woman's side. The gesture looked less like an attempt to defend her and more like an attempt to hide. Once again, disgust flowed through Killian.

"Mr. Mallory, kindly escort the lady outside."

The woman looked to Airril, her jaw now dropped. "Why? What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to mutilate your husband and leave him to bleed to death on your floor," Killian said conversationally, pulling his sword out from his sheath with a sharp hiss. "Perhaps I'll castrate him as well. It seems a fitting punishment for attempted rape."

"Rape?" The woman looked around at the men as if waiting for a contradiction. "I'm his wife, sir. I was happy to lay with him."

"Then clearly I'm not here on your behalf," Killian agreed with a feral smile.

The woman stared at her ashen-faced husband, who was now swaying on his feet. The grey face only made his freshly sliced cheek from the night before stand out all the more.

"Airril?" She whispered.

Owen moved towards her with a nod from Killian.

"Orianna, don't leave!" He begged as Owen pulled her to her feet.

That was all it took for the woman to start screaming bloody murder. Killian couldn't understand many of the words from underneath the screams and the tears, and he understood less once Owen had clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Mr. Mallory will explain the situation, my dear. You'll thank us soon enough," Killian assured her.

Tears were now running down Airril's face. "No, no, please, sir-"

Killian scowled. "Captain."

The man winced, falling to his knees. "Captain, have pity-"

"I am a man of honour," Killian reassured him, "and I do enjoy some sport. Perhaps I shall give you a chance to fight for your life..."

The blubbering man looked up at him with hope.

"Or, perhaps not, since you were too cowardly to give Milah a chance," he finished, slowly driving his blade through the man's stomach. The man cried out and, in a foolish move that again spoke of his youth, tried to stop the blade with his hands. He howled anew and drew them back, staring as they dripped blood onto the floor. The man fell to the ground with a grunt as Killian pulled his sword out.

"What next?" He asked coolly. "I could be merciful and finish things off, instead of leaving you here to bleed out slowly like a stuck pig."

He jabbed again with his sword and the man screamed.

"Or not."

Killian considered the man, deciding what to carve up next, when the woman came rushing back in with a piercing scream. Acting solely on reflex, Killian's sword came up instinctively to defend himself. The woman - Orianna, Killian remembered - had rushed in with far too much momentum to avoid the well-placed blade. For a moment, her dark green eyes connected with his blue in a look of mutual surprise. She let out a small cry, like that of a child in the throes of a nightmare, so soft that Killian imagined that he only heard it because she was right in front of him. He felt as though he were in a nightmare of his own, watching the eyes stare accusingly into his soul. Orianna. The name was hauntingly close to Lyanna's, he realized in that moment. It was not a comforting thought.

For a moment, Killian was struck with the mad urge to apologize. Hurting her hadn't been his plan. She was innocent, after all, merely here by an unfortunate coincidence. Surely, she didn't know what her husband was and what he got up to under the forgiving mask of nighttime. She was barely more than a child, driven by a mad impulse of heroism, and he knew she would die for it. She could die quickly or slowly, but, either way, her life was at its end, and it was his fault.

Then again, maybe it wasn't.

He'd tried to save her. If she was too thick to accept an act of mercy, what was he to do about it?

Still, his insides squirmed with guilt. Only a moment had passed, and yet it felt like an eternity under the scrutiny of Orianna's sickeningly blank eyes.

With a deep breath, he pushed the guilt away. He was a pirate captain, not a child. Everyone was doomed to die eventually; did it really matter if he'd put her out of her misery a little bit early? Perhaps he was doing the girl a favour; she was sure to find out about her husband's infidelity and monstrosity sooner or later. Perhaps she would condone it. Perhaps she was simply another townsperson who had added to Milah's suffering, taunting her for her husband's cowardice without knowing that her own husband's was just as bad. At any rate, her death would add to Airril's suffering, and wasn't that the point of this whole venture? This did nothing to besmirch his honour, he decided. It was regrettable, but that was all.

He still ended her suffering quickly, pulling his sword out of her and thrusting it back in, straight through her heart.

The light in her eyes faded before she hit the floor, and Airril let out another hysterical scream, even worse than the last.

"Shame, really. She was quite beautiful," Killian mused, nudging her onto her back with his foot. He allowed anger towards the man at his feet - and those like him that he had already encountered - to fill him and replace his guilt, providing fuel for his taunts. "Loud, but quite lovely. However did you manage to get a woman like her? An arranged marriage, no doubt."

Her small mouth was open in a permanent expression of surprise, blood trickling gently from her open mouth into her equally red hair. She looked even younger than Killian had initially thought. Stupid woman, running into a sword. At least he had rid the world of a fraction of its stupidity.

"Sorry, Captain, she bit me..." Owen said from the doorway in a hushed, pained tone.

"These things happen, Mallory," Killian dismissed him, tracing a tear down Airril's face with his sword for no other reason than his own satisfaction. As the man whimpered, Killian felt powerful. The feeling was frightening and exhilarating, filling him up and replacing any other lingerings of conscience.

"I think I shall leave you like this," he decided out loud. "You'll bleed out eventually. I punctured some pretty vital parts of you, you see. Perhaps the pain will diminish eventually, but I wouldn't hope for much."

Killian leaned down and cleaned his blade on the man's pants, before leaving without a second glance at the man and woman bleeding out on the floor. The man's pitiful sounds only served to further his increasingly good mood.

"Next?" Owen asked, still eyeing the dead woman sadly.

"Indeed," Killian agreed, slinging an arm around his friend's shoulder.

The next man was harder to find, since Killian had seen even less of him. Still, asking around was fairly successful, and Killian was fortunate enough to recognize the man from afar. He was out in the fields, standing against the setting sun. All that was visible was a rather bulky silhouette. Fortunately, that was all Killian needed to recognize the man.

"Shall we pay him a house call?" Killian muttered to his companion, already planning the details and revelling in the theatrics of it all.

The theatrics were somewhat ruined, though, by the older couple snoring from within the quiet house. Parents, Killian assumed. Actual living parents! His idea of a surprise attack - like an apparition from hell - went up in smoke.

"To the fields," he ordered his friend with a disappointed eye-roll.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Killian had wanted to go into the house for a reason; the second the man saw them coming, he was certain to run. Which left the two pirates the unpleasant task of crawling ungracefully through the fields of some plant or another.

"Just like old army days, eh, Killian?" Owen joked.

Killian declined to answer, still a bit put out by this change in plans. In addition, the bloody plants that they crawled through were tickling Killian's nose unpleasantly and causing his skin to itch. Having never lived on a farm himself, he couldn't remember being exposed to this particular hellish crop, but he was growing increasingly certain that he was allergic to _something_ in this field. He tried plugging his nose discretely, but that only caused a sneeze to rush out of his mouth all at once in a horribly loud cacophony of noise.

"Who's there?" Came a gruff voice from further out.

Owen swore quietly under his breath. Killian would have sworn too, but his hands were far too itchy and he was far too busy scratching them. He'd have hives for sure. Enough was enough.

Killian climbed to his feet as gracefully as possible, which was only somewhat gracefully since he had to pause to extract some grass from his clothes. Fortunately, the farmer had already moved quite close to them in a challenge. This man was probably a decade older than Owen, with hair that was starting to recede in spite of his relative youth.

The theatrics of this appearance were diminished when Killian opened his mouth to say something clever, only to sneeze violently multiple times. The man took a moment to stare at him before he started to run. Fortunately, Owen had taken advantage of Killian's clumsiness and allergies to move behind the farmer and stop his retreat with the threat of his sword. The man turned slowly back around to face Killian, who advanced with the confidence of a man who knows he has nothing to fear.

Killian tutted softly. "It must be difficult to be outnumbered like this. Really, very bad form of us to do this, isn't it?"

Glyn started to tremble. "Yes. Believe me, I learned my lesson last night."

"No," Killian disagreed with a genial smile. "No, you didn't, because you ran."

"I did!" The man told him. "I swear."

"It's a shame you couldn't have learned that lesson earlier," Killian mused. "Did you always do the holding, or did you ever get a turn? It was a bad bargain, mate, if you got nothing for your troubles."

"Please. I never did! I swear. Honestly. And I'd never do it again-"

Killian exchanged a skeptical glance with Owen.

"Still," he added softly. "I think that you may have been the worse culprit in this scenario. Your mate's fun wouldn't have been possibly without you. I think that means that you deserve a worse punishment than your mate."

The eyes of the farmer grew panicked. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No, certainly not. I'm a fair man. I'll give you what you deserve. The question is, do you deserve no hands or no feet?"

The man stared before, predictably, trying to bolt. Owen stopped him easily, keeping him in a chokehold.

"What do you think, Mr. Mallory? Should we keep him from holding women against their will again, or keep him from running?"

Glyn was sobbing now, fat tears running down his weathered face. "Please, sir. If I don't have hands or feet, how will I farm? My family will starve, sir."

Crouching close to his face, Killian arranged his own face into an expression of mock-sympathy. "I suppose you'll have to explain why they're starving then. Who knows? Perhaps they'll kill you themselves."

Killian circled the man, enjoying the way his eyes followed his every movement. "I think hands."

The man sobbed even harder.

"Forgive me!" He begged, falling to his knees even as Owen maintained his hold. He grabbed the hem of Killian's trousers and let his tears fall over his boots. "Please, please, forgive me."

The words sparked an almost forgotten ember of anger within Killian.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Why?" Emma whispered. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it was hard to entirely hide the horror she was feeling. She had seen moments of Killian's darkness. Still, this was a side of Killian that she was almost entirely unfamiliar with, except perhaps for the moment when he had shot Belle and stabbed Rumplestiltskin. It was a far cry from the flirty and charming man she had come to know.

For the first time, Killian risked a glance at her and clearly didn't like what he saw. He looked away, his jaw tightening minutely in a gesture that Emma realized she had become intimately acquainted with. He was stressed or hurt, perhaps even angry. She briefly wondered if she ought to be afraid of him, not for having feelings for her and relentlessly beating at her carefully crafted walls to force her to face her own feelings, but for being a... well, a villain. Killian's warning from the night earlier - "that man sitting there, you don't know him" - suddenly made much more sense.

* * *

The Past, 1810

* * *

Fog lay heavily over the graveyard, so thickly that Killian imagined that he could lay in it like a blanket. Of course, it wasn't as soft as it looked, and it was twice as wet, covering his mother's grave in thick dewdrops that trickled down her stone like tears.

"Evening, mum," Killian told the stone, laying a soft hand on the dew drops and allowing the cold to seep through his fingers.

Of course, the stone didn't respond. It never did, nor did the birds his mother had promised to send to him to sing. They never did when he came to visit the graveyard, which was every Friday night. Only crows cawed dismally, and Killian knew that they couldn't be the birds his mother had promised him on her deathbed, because his mother knew about singing. A crow would never meet her standards.

"I made a lot of money today," he continued softly, sitting down with his back to the stone. "I think I played really well. I could play for you, if you wanted."

Predictably, there was no response. However, Killian could hear gentle footsteps, which caused him to tense up against the stone and prepare to jump to his feet. For a mad moment of foolish hope, he wondered if his mother was alive after all and about to reveal herself to him. He picked up a rock next to the grave just in case, though, ready to mash the brains of anyone who tried to rob him.

The figure who emerged from the fog was not a robber.

"You," Killian hissed.

Edward Jones looked back at him. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair overgrown, tangled, and matted, and his clothes filthy and hanging from his thin form. He looked more like a ghost than a man.

"Get away from me!" Killian snarled, backing into his mother's gravestone.

Edward recoiled as though he'd been slapped.

"Killian. I've been looking for you," he gasped hurriedly.

"Bollocks," Killian retorted angrily.

"It was a mistake to leave you. I figured it out-"

"Did you?" He snapped. These were the words he had longed to hear over a year ago, but now they fell on a hardened heart.

"Yes," Edward said hurriedly.

"What the hell do you want?"

Edward hesitated, eyes frantically scanning his son. "Forgiveness."

If he had said something like "a hug" or "a parsnip", Killian couldn't have been more surprised or appalled. The man who stood before him did not resemble the father he remembered. He was a shell, a scarecrow of a man. He was as broken as a ship against sharp rocks, all hard edges and missing planks.

"Please, son," he whispered, falling to his knees and grabbing at Killian's shirt before he could get out of his reach. "Please, I need you. I'm begging you. Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

For a moment, Killian couldn't respond. Forgive his father? He felt lightheaded at the prospect of having a family again, a real one that wouldn't hit him or yell at him. And yet... how could he forgive him after what he'd done?

"No," Killian replied, his voice striking at his father like physical blows. "You don't love me. You abandoned me. You left me alone on a bloody ship to work my way back here to a family that doesn't want me. I've had to live with Uncle Connor. I don't know if you recall how mental and violent he is, but I can assure you that it's only gotten worse with time. Mum would have hated you if she could see you now; you're pathetic. _I_ hate you!"

"Killian, please," Edward's voice broke.

"No. I owe you nothing. I don't want to see you ever again. Get the hell out of my life."

And Killian had turned away, feeling hard as a stone statue and just as emotionless. The graveyard echoed with his father's quiet sobs.

Less than a fortnight later, Killian watched him die.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"No," Killian hissed, before angrily separating the man's hands from his arms.

He left him there, in that stupid allergenic field, no longer feeling powerful and exhilarated, but instead feeling empty and coldly furious.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Your father came back," Emma said in amazement. "To-"

"To ease his own conscience," Killian finished firmly, disdain etched into every contour of his handsome face. "Nothing more."

It was clear that Killian needed to believe that for _his_ own conscience, Emma couldn't help but think, but she was reluctant to push the subject at the moment.

Killian looked at her again, looking decidedly worn down, but with just a spark of angry pride. "Still want to hear more of the story, Swan?"

Emma hesitated for just a moment, but it was enough.

"That's what I thought," he replied, trying to sound smug and utterly failing. Instead, he just sounded angry. "I told you that you couldn't handle it."

Without thinking, Emma grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop, forcing him to face her. "Hey! I didn't say anything!"

"Didn't have to," he retorted, eyes sparking. "Open book, love, remember?"

Emma made a noise of disgust and, to her surprise, Killian flinched minutely. Emma's temper was on the rise, but that helped to stop it in its tracks. She had to remember that this was _Killian_, the same Killian whose past, she had told him, didn't matter. Even more importantly, he was making himself vulnerable for her and risking a lot, all to satiate her curiosity.

"Well, if I'm such an open book, you should be able to tell that I get it. Remember when I told you that we understand each other? That still applies, even if you did some bad stuff. I get why you did what you did, even if I don't agree with it." Just saying it, Emma realized that these weren't empty words of comfort. Even if she should have been, she wasn't frightened of Killian. How could she be? In spite of everything, she felt that she could look at his motivations and situation and understand. She'd been in dark places herself, even if, admittedly, they'd never been that dark. Nevertheless, she suddenly knew with clarity that she still couldn't consider Killian a "true" villain.

Killian was silent for a moment, studying his boots with great interest.

"Go on, please," Emma urged. It came out almost as a question.

Now it was Killian's turn to hesitate, but after a moment of visibly steeling himself, he returned to his story.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The rest of the evening was filled with more tales of travel, treasure, and adventure. Milah's shuttered face slowly opened into a soft glow of excitement and passion that spurred Killian's stories on to become works of art.

At the end of the night, Milah pulled Killian aside.

"I know what you did to those men," she began softly, her face hidden in shadow.

Killian stiffened, preparing himself for the verbal attack and the rejection.

"And it was the bravest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you," she gushed, a smile spreading across her face that was radiant enough to light up the midnight sky.

And then, because apparently that declaration wasn't enough, Milah kissed him. It wasn't a chaste kiss, but a heated collision of hungry mouths and hungrier, desperate souls. The kiss left them both breathless and tingling.

"You'll be back tomorrow?" She whispered, her breath caressing his face like a second kiss.

"Of course," Killian murmured without even thinking about it.

"Good."

She was kissing him again, sending his heart fluttering like a lovesick schoolboy's. Perhaps there should have been a part of him worrying about the fact that she had a husband and a son, or the fact that he had just murdered two people and destroyed the lives of at least three others for this woman, but, for a moment, nothing mattered except for the ebb and flow of his lips against Milah's.

* * *

*credit goes to Percy Shelley (excerpt from "Music, When Soft Voices Die"


	36. Chapter 35

I owe you all another apology for the delay. I know, these excuses are getting crazier and crazier, but my depression was winning for a while there, and I've actually spent the last few weeks in the hospital. Anyway, I've ended up having to drop my school semester, so I suppose that will give me more time to write (assuming my brain doesn't get in the way). Again, thank you all for sticking with this crazy story; you're all amazing. I appreciate reviews if you have the time/inclination to write them. :)

I also owe another huge thank you to the lovely Trish Tavor for betaing this chapter. Honestly, she's amazing and makes my writing a million times better!

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian came to a stop and Emma's eyes automatically moved to scan their surroundings warily.

"What's wrong?" She asked under her breath.

He offered her a brief smile of reassurance. "While rum is my beverage of choice, I admit that water also has its uses, especially on a long walk. I recall a stream near here, and I thought it would be advantageous to quench our thirst before we continue."

Emma nodded, following gratefully as he led her to a small clearing through the trees. For a brief moment, Emma allowed herself to wonder how on earth he'd known about this spot. All the trees looked almost identical to her, with one forest scene blurring into the next. A somewhat reluctant admiration filled her for the man beside her; she had to admit that she'd be quite lost if he hadn't fallen through the portal too.

"You're sure we don't need to purify it or anything?"

Killian shot her the exasperated look of someone who has heard the same question far too many times. Rather than answering her again, he cupped some water in his hand and slowly brought it to his lips, looking up with unblinking eyes fixed on hers as he drank. Something about this struck her as being vaguely sexual, whether that was his intention or not. Her insides started to squirm, prompting her to turn away with a scowl.

As she drank, she wondered if he'd used that look on Milah. He must have. Did he know how it looked? Did he practice in the mirror, deciding that particular angle was the most "devilishly handsome"? Or was it just something he did naturally? A picture sprung up into her brain unwittingly of Killian looking up through his lashes at Milah instead of her, of Milah laughing and leaning down to kiss him.

Emma shook her head. She was not jealous of a woman long dead, and certainly not over a man who she had already refused.

When she glanced back at Killian, he was smirking as though he knew exactly where her thoughts were. Maybe he _had_ practiced that look. Smug bastard. Emma was tempted to splash that look off of his face, but she wasn't certain that would end well. Besides, she didn't have time; she had to get to her mother.

By the time Emma finished, she felt like she was going to slosh as she walked. On the plus side, she wasn't thirsty anymore. She gratefully accepted Killian's hand to help her to her feet.

"So," Emma prompted with a pointed look at her companion. "What happened next?"

* * *

The Past

* * *

In a way, Killian was unsurprised to see Milah on the deck of his ship the next morning. He supposed that Milah was just someone he had always viewed as spontaneous, like a seed carried on a light spring wind. Why wouldn't she be draped over the rail, hair blowing in the breeze off the sea? She seemed so natural and beautiful there that Killian felt a strong urge to just stop and look at her. Perhaps he would have, if she hadn't noticed him within seconds. The corners of her mouth turned upwards as their eyes met, although something about her expression seemed slightly strained.

Before Killian could even begin to wonder why that was, she flounced over to him proudly, tossing her curls behind her. "I drew last night."

Killian was too busy noting how her dress brought out the faint blue tinges in her grey eyes to respond for a moment. "Oh?"

He aimed for a cool, unconcerned tone. He failed miserably.

With a small smile that acknowledged that failure and enjoyed it, Milah thrust a page in his face. "Look."

Killian dragged his eyes away from the woman in front of him and fixed them on the charcoal outlines of a boy, likely seven or eight years old. His heart, which had been pounding in excited anticipation only moments before, was starting to calm and sink in a downward trajectory.

"Your lad." Killian already knew the answer.

"Baelfire," agreed Milah. Her chin started to tremble, the suppressed tension Killian had sensed starting to emerge.

From there, Killian knew without a doubt what was about to happen. "Ah," he said, scratching behind his ear.

"I love him," she told him. It sounded almost like she were trying to convince herself of the truth of her statement. "I love him," she repeated, a bit more strongly.

"I know," Killian assured her, praying that she could see his sincerity.

Tears were starting to gather in her eyes. "I just wanted to let you know, just in case you think I'm a terrible mother." The words rushed out, slightly accusatory and slightly defensive.

"I don't think that."

She took a step away from him, causing Killian's stomach to sink even further. While he wasn't entirely surprised by the rejection, it still hurt more than he would have liked to admit. Of course, he'd imagined that there would be some fall out after their kiss last night. Guilt was to be expected, he supposed, especially with a child involved. Unfortunately, he himself felt very little guilt. He felt some guilt over Milah being hurt through their interaction and the faint, distant promise of what might have been. He could also summon up some sadness for her child. However, most of his guilt was overshadowed by the feelings of rejection and abandonment that never seemed to go away regardless of how many times he'd experienced them.

"Anyway, I have to go home. I just wanted to let you know," Milah stated with a distinct air of misery, looking for all the world like a lost child.

Killian filled in the blanks that he had known were coming: it was over. Over before it had even begun.

"Aye," Killian acknowledged, passing the page back over to her with his face carefully masked.

She took it without meeting his eyes and then hurried down the gangplank. Killian watched her retreating form with a pang of sadness. It wasn't fair that both of them felt something for each other, something _good_, and neither were allowed to actually grasp the happiness that was presented to them. Hadn't they both suffered enough? Hadn't _he_ lost enough people without having to say goodbye to another? He wasn't sure which was worse: losing a loved one permanently, like Liam, or always having the faint possibility, the terrible hope, that someone was attainable when they truly weren't. Part of him wanted desperately to beg her to stop, to come back, to give him a chance. However, something stopped him, whether it was pride, fear, regard for her decision or her family's needs, or something else. Instead, he ignored the desperate cry of his heart and returned to his quarters.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Sympathy flooded Emma's heart, but she pushed it aside with the knowledge that the story most certainly didn't end there. Yes, she could feel bad for the pirate in the moment for the things he had suffered, but Milah was a different matter. In fact, after thinking of the woman, it took all of Emma's will to repress a disdainful snort. Still, something must have shown in her expression because a flash of hurt flickered across Killian's face.

"Milah's resolve clearly didn't last," she commented in a quick explanation, disapproval written all over her face.

Killian shrugged, momentarily appeased. "No. Devilishly handsome pirates are difficult to resist."

He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, and this time she did snort.

* * *

The Past

* * *

That night, Milah didn't come to the tavern, nor the next night, but the day after that-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"That lasted long," Emma observed drily.

Killian shot her a sideways look. He hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering if he should ignore her clear judgment of Milah once again or risk an argument. When he did speak, it was with words that were carefully weighed beforehand. "As much as jealousy becomes you, Swan, do try to remember her situation. She was choosing between her family's happiness and her own. That choice is not an easy one, and some dithering is to be expected."

As much as Emma hated being taught morals by Captain Hook, for god's sake, a small twinge of shame shot through her. The shame was not only for her attitude towards Milah, though; mostly, she was ashamed for putting Killian in the awkward position of having to listen to the current woman he had feelings for bash the woman he had loved. Not only had he loved her, he had loved her enough to live almost two hundred years devoted to avenging her. He had loved her deeply and was showing incredible bravery to even talk about her, and Emma was yet again disregarding the enormity of what it meant to Killian to share these things.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, looking into his eyes to allow him to read her, for once.

Surprise at receiving an apology from her briefly arranged his features, but, after a moment, he offered her a smile that promised understanding. "It's fine, love."

"Tell me more? Please?" Emma requested, finally breaking eye contact as she became slightly uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"

Emma nodded.

* * *

The Past

* * *

-Milah had rushed onto his ship in a flurry, earning more than a few curious looks from Killian's crew. Fortunately, he was on deck himself at the time and able to get to her before his crew gave her any trouble for the intrusion.

In spite of himself, his heart leapt when he saw her.

He knew something had changed from the moment he looked at her. Of course, the fact that she was there at all told him something, but it was more than that. Her face was flushed, her general appearance unkempt, but, most of all, there was something clear in her tight expression. It was a face of barely restrained fury.

At first, Killian feared that it was directed at him. Perhaps she was angry at him for kissing her, even if it had been mutual. However, some of the fury cleared the second her eyes met his, giving way to barely held back tears.

"You're still here," she breathed, running trembling fingers through her curls.

Killian clamped down on the impulse to grab her hands in his own and nodded. "Of course. I said I would be."

Without another word, Milah grabbed one of his hands in her own and started leading him towards the gangplank.

"I want to take you somewhere. Can you come?" She demanded, the illusion of choice clearly negated by the force she used to drag him away from his ship. Still, it wasn't as though he had the power to resist her.

She led him outside of the village into a small wood, weaving amongst branches and roots with the practice of someone who knew her route well. Just as the sun was setting, they reached a small lake. Milah finally relinquished his hand and sat heavily down on the rocks by the shore.

"I hate him," she said simply, staring at the water.

Killian didn't ask who "he" was. Instead, he sat next to her and prepared to listen to a long rant.

"He tried to lecture me - me! - about how much of a failure I am as a wife and mother. As if he can possibly do that when he can't be bothered to protect us, or to be a good role-model for his son. How am I supposed to fulfill duties when I'm too miserable to even get out of bed? He acted as though I was neglecting Bae. If I can't always love him properly, it's because of him. He took my love and destroyed it. You know I actually thought that I could love him once? I didn't realize how pathetic he was then. Every time I try to start again, something holds me back. Maybe it's because he's so unwilling to change. I've tried so hard to encourage him to be brave, and it's gotten me nowhere. I tried to change, to adjust to this life, even when it's not what I want. I never wanted to be a wife or a mother. I wanted to live. I wanted adventure. I wanted passion and- and art, and beautiful things and freedom. I can't stand this!"

Milah was almost hysterical now, tears flowing down her face freely as she shouted at the lake. Hundreds of white moths danced patterns across the surface of the water, completely unperturbed by the woman breaking down beside them.

"And I know I shouldn't have come to you. But you're my only friend," she admitted softly.

Killian was struck in that moment by her vulnerability. She really was so opposite to her husband; she wasn't afraid to say that she was lonely, which was a courage that Killian himself didn't think he possessed.

"And as your only friend, I have the best solution," Killian replied, deciding it was time to steer the conversation onto a less destructive topic.

"Murder?" Milah snorted.

As he'd hoped, he actually got a laugh from her when he presented her with a small bottle of rum from his coat pocket.

"Robbed this from the king's castle." His eyes glimmered with humour. "I was saving it for a special occasion. This seems like the perfect one, hmm?"

Milah wiped her eyes and offered a shaky smile. "Trying to add alcoholism to my list of problems?"

"I would hardly call that a problem, love. More of a solution. I've known many a happy drunk, including myself," he quipped.

For a moment, his companion looked unsure. "Are you sure you want to waste it on me?"

"It's hardly a waste, love. I'm bloody happy to get rid of it, truth be told." Of course he hadn't been able to resist snatching up the small bottle when it caught his eye on the way to his grandfather's quarters, especially because he figured that he might need it to numb the pain if he survived his second attempt to kill Lord Alasdair. The theft was a little bit of extra revenge, petty as it was. Killian decided to spare Milah the details; the memories associated with his last sojourn through the palace were hardly something he wanted to relive. Also, this was about her, not him. "Besides," he continued, "I need a second opinion on whether the palace rum is as good as one would expect."

At that, Milah's eyes lit up; she never could resist a game of any sort. Killian opened the bottle with ease and offered it to his companion. "Ladies first."

Never one to do something halfway, Milah took a large swig. Against his will, Killian's eyes were drawn to her long neck and her lips as they wrapped around the bottle. He was struck with the mad urge to kiss her and taste every bit of rum on her lips, but he wasn't sure what her intentions were at this point and regretfully deemed it as inappropriate to take advantage of her current state.

Milah spluttered and made a face. "Tastes like horse piss," was her verdict.

"Is that a taste you're familiar with?" Killian teased, taking the bottle from her and trying it himself. "Ugh."

"I told you," she said triumphantly. "Horse piss."

"Perhaps it was intended for someone the king wanted to poison," Killian groaned, looking at the bottle of rum with an expression that indicated utter betrayal.

Milah was less bothered. "Or perhaps we're just used to cheap stuff."

"Better that than this." Killian muttered, throwing the bottle into the water in disgust. Of course anything from that day would taste like death. It was sad that even _rum_, his dear friend since Liam's death, could disappoint him. The couple watched it sink in satisfaction, before falling into a familiar companionable silence.

Milah was the one to break it. "I did something terrible today." She stared moodily at the water, once again refusing to meet Killian's eyes.

Resigning himself to more venting, Killian waited patiently for her to continue.

"It was so stupid, really. There was a bat that somehow got into the house last night, and Baelfire was frightened. He ran to me and clung to my skirts and buried his face in them... and do you know what I did?" A solitary tear ran down Milah's cheek. "I pushed him away and told him not to be a coward, to grow up. He's only a child; it's not his fault that he was frightened. But, for a moment, I just saw my _husband_," - she said it like a dirty word- "And I couldn't stand the sight of him. Shouldn't I have some sort of maternal instinct to overpower my hatred? I think there's something wrong with me. I just had to get away from him. Shouldn't I be able to love my own child unconditionally?"

Killian watched her sadly, suddenly reminded, not for the first time, of another woman who lacked maternal instincts. What would it be like to not be capable of truly loving your own child? Had his mother ever felt like this? He didn't think so. He'd never understood it with Helena. However, he was seeing a parallel between his aunt's situation and Milah's, and it was making him slightly uncomfortable about the hostility he had harboured in his heart for Lyanna's mother. Both women carried a heavy misery around with them, a stifling of their own spirit. Perhaps it simply wasn't possible to care for another when a mother wasn't even able to care for herself. Perhaps when life was a burden on its own, adding the burden of another life was too much. Perhaps being miserable made it hard for some people to love properly. Maybe, just maybe, love was situational.

"Maybe... everyone is just different. Maybe birthing a child doesn't create a mother. Maybe it's something else, and not everyone has it. I'm not sure you're so unusual," Killian offered finally.

His companion offered him a skeptical look. "I think I'm unnatural."

"Natural is dull, though, isn't it?" He shrugged.

When he received no response, he decided it was time to change the subject again. "Have you ever skipped stones?"

Milah stared at him. "What?"

"Skipped stones. When I was a lad, my mother sometimes took me to the rocky bits of the ocean, and we'd make it a game to find the perfect skipping rock. Mum was bloody brilliant at it; even on huge waves, she could skip rocks a dozen times. She could also do this thing called 'cutting the devil's throat'. I never quite mastered that one."

In some ways, Milah was incredibly easy to understand. Offer her a game or a distraction, and she was... hooked.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"How long have you been waiting to use that one?" Emma groaned.

He just winked at her playfully.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"She told me that she did it as a child with her father whenever she was upset. She said nothing fixed a problem like throwing something as hard as you could. She was a clever lady."

With a flourish, Killian presented her with a flat rock he'd eyed at their feet. The one he found for himself was less optimal, but he wasn't too picky. He demonstrated the throwing technique with ease. Milah's attempt was clumsy and ended with the perfect flat rock sinking to the bottom of the lake.

Killian bit back a chuckle. "Well, that was a very... artistic interpretation-"

She swatted him playfully. "Oh, go to hell."

"Here." Killian picked up another rock and stood behind her so that his right hand covered hers. "Like this," he murmured in her ear, showing her the movement. He heard her breath hitch.

Milah's next throw skipped twice, and she turned her head to face him triumphantly. Her expression soon faded into something else when she realized how close their faces were.

"You know," she said softly, her breath ghosting across his face. "I haven't shown this place to anybody before. I discovered it with my father when we visited my uncle years ago, back when I was only a small child. I'd almost forgotten about it, and then I was upset and thinking of just walking away and leaving when I stumbled across it again. It's magical, isn't it?"

Milah paused, looking around her with the wonder of a child seeing something amazing for the first time. Killian nodded his agreement, unwilling to speak and break the spell of her wonderment. This was one of the things he loved best about Milah: her ability to turn something mundane into something exquisite. She may have believed that the place itself was wonderful, but Killian knew that Milah was someone who created the magic for herself and spread it to those around her.

After a moment, she broke her reverie with a faint smile playing about her lips. She pulled Killian's hand into hers and started exploring it with her thumb in a gesture of casual intimacy. "I learned to swim here, and I remember being held by my father and feeling the water against my skin and realizing that I could see the whole world reflected in the water. The trees and the sky and my father and the water; everything was jumbled together into a single picture, but it was always changing, and it was the most beautiful thing. Coming here makes me remember why I wanted to be an artist in the first place." Her voice had turned wistful.

"You still could be," Killian offered quietly, searching her stormy eyes for something, although he wasn't certain what it was.

Pain flickered through her eyes, but then she closed them and bridged the small gap between their lips. It was a quick kiss, yet full of longing. When Milah pulled away, it was with a small laugh.

"What?" Killian asked, smiling uncertainly.

"If only sixteen year-old me could have seen this. I wanted this so badly then," she admitted. "I thought you were very cute."

"I think I would have objected to that term."

"Perhaps," agreed Milah.

"I thought you were quite cute yourself," Killian told her.

Milah rested her head against his shoulder, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"Do you think things would have been different if I'd told you?" Milah wondered aloud.

Killian thought for a moment. "No," he said finally. "I think you still would've gone out, and your uncle still would've taken you here. It would've just made everything more difficult."

"And if we were here now, maybe we'd be wondering if it was just because we loved each other first, and we were chasing something that had been and could never be again," she mused. "I mean, I suppose it was natural to be attracted to each other when we were that age and in such close quarters. Maybe it would make things less real now."

"So really, this is perfect," Killian agreed.

"Except for the small detail of my marriage."

The two lapsed into silence at that, both pursuing their trains of thought of what might have been. Part of Killian wanted to beg Milah to forget her husband and her child, but he knew that he couldn't do that and risk pulling her into a life of regret and bitterness. Still, part of him wanted to argue that they weren't in the wrong for this. Weren't they just victims of fate, just the same as Milah's husband and child? The injustice of it all settled on his chest with an uncomfortable weight.

"I should go," Milah said, her words muffled against his shoulder. She lifted her head and looked at him expectantly. "Will you be at the tavern tomorrow night?"

"Aye," Killian confirmed without even thinking about it.

"Good." She smiled.

Then Killian walked her home, holding her beautiful artist's hand in his own. He kissed her just outside the front door of the house she shared with her husband and child, and he desired her in spite of it, perhaps even partially because of it. He thought he'd have loved her regardless of the situation he had met her in, but something about the thought of something so forbidden enhanced his senses as never before. He thought of her words earlier in the night, when she had called whatever this was between them "real". Killian wondered if perhaps this was the most real thing he'd ever felt, more real than the creaking floor of his ship with its salty air, more real even than the grief he had felt with the loss of each subsequent person in his life. He felt powerful, something that felt tantalizing to him after a life of powerlessness. Killing made him feel powerful, as did captaining his ship, but nothing compared to the feeling of Milah melting into his arms.

What was it about Milah that made everything so real? He wondered vaguely if it was because she herself was so real; she made everything around her so much brighter, so much more real, just by her presence. He wanted to make her feel her beauty - both physical and emotional - in every pore of her being. He wanted to make love to her until she became undone and forgot about every grief she had every suffered. He wanted to heal her and heal himself in the process. Leaving her was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever done.

As it turned out, he didn't have to.

The next night, Milah arrived at his ship before they went to the tavern, looking ravishing in a deeply cut white blouse and skirt. Killian imagined that she could make a potato sack look beautiful, though.

She smiled radiantly when she saw him, and it was enough to make Killian want to kiss her right there. Still, he restrained himself. It would make things more difficult when he left, he knew. However, he couldn't resist giving her some presents from his travels: a silk scarf, earrings and a necklace that brought out the tints of blue in her grey eyes, and a hairpin that brought out their silver. They were something to remember him by, something he didn't need to voice because he knew Milah understood.

They had sauntered down to the tavern in a large group of pirates who treated Milah with the utmost respect. Soon they were involved in a drinking game involving dice and betting, leaving Killian captivated by Milah's laugh. Milah was beautiful, but a happy Milah was radiant.

The happiness was short-lived, however. Killian knew who the man was the second he called Milah's name. He was the sort of man who Killian would pass by without a second glance, an old man by Killian's standards, dressed in poor cloth with messy hair, a walking stick, and an apologetic air.

"Milah, it's time to go," he said, the authoritative words counteracted by the timidity with which he spoke them.

Killian couldn't hold back a twinge of disgust in his gut, although he was careful to keep his face blank.

"Good. So go." Milah was less effective at taming her own disgust, never quite as clear as when she spoke so succinctly.

Although he knew very well who the man was, Killian asked, "who's this?" It was a mocking question, although he asked it as though he couldn't care less. A man that quashed Milah's spirit deserved no respect.

"No one. Just my husband." Her words dripped with venom, and all sense of laughter and fun was totally gone from her person.

"Oh. Well, he's a tad taller than you described," Killian joked, hoping to coax a laugh out of her. There was also a part of him that wanted to see this lowly man stoop even lower, this man who stood in the way of his happiness.

When the man hesitantly begged her to remember her responsibilities, Killian held his breath in anticipation of Milah's ire. She didn't disappoint. Her eyes narrowed, and, if possible, she became even colder towards the man. Killian began to feel almost uncomfortable as she unleashed a tirade against her husband that Killian imagined was a replica of a common conversation in their household. She called out his cowardice and the events that had defined it once and for all, reminding Killian to eye the man with even more disgust. She even implied that she'd have preferred his death over his current state. Milah had a vicious tongue when she so chose, and Killian couldn't hold back a small smile as he listened to her spirited remarks. This was the Milah he remembered. For a minute, he dared to hope that she would choose to leave with him. He had rarely seen a less compatible husband and wife.

Everything changed the minute Baelfire came in. He called for his mother and looked at her with an innocence that made even Killian bubble with shame. Milah's expression changed instantly, turning to one of slight discomfort as she looked deep into her son's eyes. For all her denial of motherly instinct, Killian saw the truth there; she did love him. Perhaps it was hidden under her misery, but it was there. Her eyes darted to Killian's briefly, perhaps in an apology, perhaps to gauge his reaction. Then she was ushering her son out, her face stony. Killian watched the sad, broken family file out with some bitterness. He left soon after, unable to stomach any merriment. He had fully expected to never see Milah again; he had believed that in that moment, she had made her choice. To say it didn't affect him would be a lie; this second rejection hurt even more than the first. He'd had a further taste of what life with Milah could be, and it had only left him hungrier and more wanting.

However, the next day, Milah surprised him once again. Her presence on his ship wasn't the biggest surprise; he imagined that she would say goodbye, perhaps offer a few regrets and excuses.

Instead, she ran to him and kissed him briefly and hungrily. Killian responded with equal fervour, taking in her scent and the feel of her underneath his hands with the desperation of a drowning man.

"Take me with you," she breathed as she broke away from the kiss.

Killian was taken aback. Surely he'd misheard. "What?"

"Take me with you. Take me away to some distant land. Take me the hell away from here," she spoke rapidly, her eyes feverish.

"But... Baelfire," Killian felt compelled to say in spite of the excitement bubbling inside of him. In spite of his own desires, he knew what it felt like to be abandoned by a parent. Damning another child to that fate didn't sit well with him, pirate or not. "Your son-"

"I can't be his mother when I'm miserable. I can't love him the way he needs me to. Besides, he prefers his father. Killian, don't make me beg."

"Milah, I want you to come with me more than anything," he admitted, cupping her cheek gently. "But-"

Milah shook her head, pulling his hand away to hold like a lifeline. "Please. If I stay here, I'll die. I feel myself dying a little more every day. I wasn't meant for this life. You know that. Please, Killian. If you feel anything for me, take me away from here."

Killian hesitated. Could he deny her what she wanted when he wanted it so badly himself? Still, she seemed to change her mind every day, and he feared how she would feel about this decision tomorrow.

"What changed your mind?" He asked.

She looked at him, eyes still wild. If he hadn't known her, he might have thought her mad. "He asked me to try for Bae. He used my _son_ against me." She sounded absolutely outraged. "And he refused to leave this place yet again. I tried asking one more time, just to see if he loved me, or if he could change. It was his last chance, and he refused. Don't you see?"

Killian's heart was starting to speed up as he allowed himself to really entertain the possibility of a life with her. He had been pushing down any hope for fear of disappointment. Now, he could see it outlined so clearly, and it was the most tempting idea he had ever entertained: waking up next to Milah and kissing her softly so as not to wake her too, watching her sketch on his deck in careful concentration, seeing her smile every day, playing with her curls, listening to her musical voice, no longer being alone...

Milah went on, speaking slowly now to drive her point home. "He doesn't love me, except in some selfish way, perhaps. I think my mind was always made up. I told him I would try for Bae, and I knew I was lying the whole time. I looked at him and I felt sick, and I realized that I would kill myself if I had to wake up every day and see that face, or deal with the knowledge that I'm a bad mother. I know that I'm a bad mother without him rubbing it in my face. If you don't take me, I'll leave anyway. But I'm begging you to take me with you because I love you. I think I'd decided to leave the minute I saw you, if I'm really being honest with myself. This was meant to happen, Killian. You were meant to come here. We were meant to fall in love. Are you going to let this stand in the way of our happiness, or will you be brave enough to take a chance?"

Underneath her passionate, driven words, Killian sensed her fear. He saw it in the stiffness of her shoulders and the rapid movements of her bottomless eyes. He knew the fear of rejection all too well; he'd felt it at the hands of his father. So much was at stake for her; this was her chance at happiness after years of misery, and it was his too. Her arguments made sense, especially since they were what he wanted badly to hear and believe. How could he deny her anything, never mind something that could provide them both with a peace that each had sought for so long without success?

"It would be an honour to have you aboard my ship," Killian told her.

Her face lit up as happy tears ran down her face. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

It felt like the beginning of a happy ending.


	37. Chapter 36

By this point, I should probably copy and paste each little author's note... I know, I'm a terrible person for updating this infrequently. You can all doubly hate me because I'm doing NaNoWriMo, and I have to admit that I'm putting that first right now. Also, depression has been a... well, you can insert a swearword of your choice here. On the plus side, it is now looking less likely that I'll knock myself off before this story is finished, so... yay?

On the plus side, I have things all planned out now. I promise to finish this before the new year, anyway! Thanks to those of you who are continuing to stick with this massive thing. I always appreciate your comments, favourites, and follows.

Buckets of thanks go to my amazing beta, Trish Tavor! As always, her opinions and edits make every chapter much better than what I could ever hope to achieve on my own.

* * *

The Past

* * *

As the crew prepared _The Jolly Roger_ for its departure, Milah wasted no time in making herself at home on the ship. She'd brought nothing with her besides the clothes on her back, but that didn't mean that she couldn't make herself comfortable in other ways. Killian paused in giving orders to see that she'd dragged a cushion from his cabin up to the deck and was perched on it with her back leaning against the rail. There was a light in her beautiful eyes as she followed the various movements of the crew with the awe of someone unfamiliar with such things. She couldn't seem to wipe the bright smile off of her face, and the sight caused Killian to feel warm. _He_ had put that smile there, and he was certain that it was one of the greatest accomplishments of his life, right up there with killing his grandfather.

It was as he was watching her - specifically the way that the salty wind blew her curls around her face - that something changed. He watched emotions flit across his lover's face: confusion, disbelief, fear, and finally horror. She was on her feet and running towards him before he could fully drag himself out of the trance he always seemed to fall into when he saw her.

"My husband," she choked, grabbing his arm. "He's coming towards the ship!"

It took a moment for the meaning of her words to fully register with Killian. As soon as they did, he felt his stomach drop to his toes.

"What?" He exclaimed in disbelief. It was difficult to believe that a man as cowardly as Milah had described would take on a ship of pirates. Perhaps her husband loved her more than she'd given him credit for.

Milah shook her head, mirroring his disbelief. "Oh, God."

After a moment of hesitation, Killian asked, "would you like to go somewhere private to speak with him? Perhaps explain the situation?"

"That I don't love him and I'm leaving?" Milah's voice rose in pitch steadily with each word. "God, no. Oh, no. No. I never want to see him again."

The last vestiges of colour drained from her face, and, for a moment, Killian thought that she might faint. His hand automatically flew to her waist to steady her. Suddenly, she grabbed his shoulders and fixed him with a steely gaze.

"Get. Rid. Of. Him."

Her voice was low and dangerous to the point where it almost didn't sound like her voice at all. The intensity of it shocked Killian, but he quickly forced himself to return to his usual nonchalance.

Killian shrugged. "Alright. Just wait below, love. I'll have him gone in a moment."

He planted a quick kiss on her forehead and guided her below. She almost ran into the depths of the ship in her desperation to not be seen by the cowardly man who'd fathered her son.

* * *

The Present

* * *

In spite of her strong urge to interrupt, Emma forced herself to listen quietly as Hook recounted the tale of how he'd gotten rid of Rumplestiltskin. He was unable to meet her eyes as he told her the details, and the spark that he'd often had while recounting his stories was gone entirely.

By the end of his tale, he lapsed into a pensive silence that was loaded with something that made Emma unwilling to interrupt.

"I knew he wouldn't fight," Killian finally said, voice flat. "I wanted to make him see how lowly he was, how undeserving of Milah he was. At the time, I may have thought it was honourable to give him the chance to fight, but there was no chance that he would win. Where's the honour in that? It would be an honourable death, but..." He trailed off, jaw clenched.

It was easy for Emma to see the internal battle that her companion was fighting. On one hand, she could see how the broken man Killian had been would do anything to keep the one person he still loved. Perhaps it had even felt right at the time to simply remove the one threat to their happy ending in such a cruel way. On the other hand, she could see that Killian was now finding it harder to justify his actions to himself. Not for the first time, Emma marveled over the degree to which the man beside her had transformed, even in their relatively short time together. Sure, he wasn't perfect, but he could now recognize his imperfections because he wasn't totally blinded by hatred.

She put a hand on his shoulder and offered him a small smile, if only to try to let him know that she understood. His blue eyes flashed to meet hers quickly before looking away, his shoulder relaxing slightly under her touch.

For the hundredth time that day, Emma felt a flash of resentment towards Milah. She had been the one to selfishly put Killian and Rumplestiltskin in that situation, all because of her own cowardice. Now it was Killian who was feeling the repercussions.

"What happened next?" Emma prompted, unwilling to share her feelings on that particular matter again.

Killian shook his head, clearly still in a brooding mood. "Well, I sailed off with Milah."

"And?"

"Well, we spent some years of ill-won bliss, I suppose," Killian said, face softening slightly as memories flitted behind his eyes.

* * *

The Past

* * *

In their time apart, Killian had forgotten what a restless sleeper Milah was. Of course, it was entirely possible that he hadn't noticed it back then. He hadn't slept well himself when he'd lived on the streets with her and Liam; his unconscious mind was constantly plagued by visions of his mother dying, and his constant companions, cold and hunger, did not lend themselves well to sleep.

Now that he shared a bed with Milah, Killian was shocked that he hadn't noticed it before. It took a while, but, halfway through the first week, Killian was already beginning to dread trying to sleep.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma didn't need to stretch her imagination very far to imagine why it took him some time to notice Milah's sleeping habits. While he didn't say it outright for once, Emma imagined that he and Milah would have spent very little time actually sleeping during their first few nights together. The thought both bothered her and made her mind wander to less-than-appropriate places. Annoyed with herself, she quickly focused back on the story again.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian would wake up multiple times in the night in response to a kick, thrown limb, or from having his blankets dragged to Milah's side of the bed or kicked onto the floor. Since childhood, Killian had adapted himself to sleeping whenever he could, regardless of the situation. He supposed that was one thing that he could thank his Uncle Connor and the navy for. However, while he slept easily and with little movement, he also woke easily. Again, he knew he had war and Uncle Connor to thank for that little habit too. It wasn't a bad habit to have as a pirate, when it was entirely possible that an unhappy crewman may try to sneak in and slit his throat, but it was certainly inconvenient with Milah.

At around the week mark, Killian gave up halfway through the night and simply slept on the floor. He found that far more relaxing, even if he was less used to sleeping on hard surfaces than he had been some years ago. Still, after discovering him there, Milah had been extremely hurt.

"Growing tired of me already?" She had asked over breakfast.

She tried to pass it off as a joke, but Killian could sense the very real concern behind her words. He paused with his cup of wine-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Hold on," Emma interrupted disbelievingly. "Wine?!"

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Swan. That's what I just said. Should I congratulate you on your listening comprehension skills?"

She shot him an unimpressed look. "For _breakfast_?"

At this, he just looked perplexed. "Aye. Of course."

"Isn't that a little early to start drinking, even for you?" Emma knew he was attached to his rum, but she'd thought his drinking had at least _some_ limits.

Oddly enough, Killian just seemed more confused by her question. He opened his mouth as though to answer, then closed it again as an idea seemed to occur to him.

"Ah. I'd forgotten yet again how little you know of life on a ship." His eyes glimmered with amusement. "The supply of fresh water on a ship is very limited, and it tends to spoil very quickly-"

"Spoil?" The thought of clean water 'spoiling' was a strange concept to Emma.

By this point, Killian seemed resigned to her ignorance. "Aye, Swan. It begins to taste horrendous and eventually spreads around disease. Algae will grow in it as it sits, rats get into it... you get the idea."

He chuckled at the face she pulled.

"The crew often drank beer or water mixed with rum, but, as Captain, I had certain privileges... fine wine being one of them. I imagine it wasn't very strong by your standards, so it was perfectly suitable for a breakfast beverage."

* * *

The Past

* * *

-halfway to his mouth, taking in the worried crease between her eyebrows.

"Of course not," he promised, smoothing the crease out with a gentle finger.

"Then why," she asked, a hint of suppressed anger in her tone, "were you on the floor this morning?"

Killian shrugged. "You toss and turn all night, love. I needed a good night's sleep for once."

Her cheeks turned slightly pink, whether out of embarrassment or incoming rage, Killian wasn't entirely certain yet. He took a quick gulp of wine in preparation while he waited to see which would win.

Relief flooded him as she sighed and sat back, looking upset but unlikely to go into a rage.

"Well... maybe you could try waking me up and asking me to lie still?" She said, staring intently at her plate.

"Alright," Killian agreed.

That night, he woke her up nine times. By the end of the night, she was about ready to punch him.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma glanced at Killian, feeling some emotion that she couldn't quite name. Even having Captain Hook next to her in the flesh, sometimes she still forgot that his life real, rather than just a fairytale. Some parts seemed too terrible or too fantastical to be true. Then she heard little details like this, something so mundane as adjusting to the sleeping habits of a romantic partner, and she was reminded that these people were real. Milah wasn't just a mythical woman whose ghost had haunted Killian... she was a flesh and blood human with feelings, needs, memories, likes and dislikes, just like any other. Killian had really lived through all of these things. He'd really lived for over two hundred years.

She suddenly felt struck with the _realness_ of it all.

* * *

The Past

* * *

In the morning, they ate breakfast in silence.

"How about pillows between us?" He said finally, rubbing at his tired eyes. His smudged eyeliner only served to make the dark circles more prominent.

Milah nodded, yawning. "Worth a try, I suppose."

Killian only woke up once that night, and it took him a moment to realize why. He still had his own blanket on top of him. No limbs were bashing him. The mattress wasn't shaking with Milah's movements.

It took him a moment to realize that was exactly the problem. Milah wasn't there at all.

Swearing under his breath, Killian pulled on a pair of trousers and hurried up onto the deck. As he'd expected, Milah was sitting against the rails, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

Wordlessly, Killian sat beside her and put an arm around her, carefully directing her head to his shoulder.

"We can get rid of the pillows of they're bothering you, love," he ventured.

His words seemed especially loud on the silent deck under the huge tapestry of stars. On the ocean, the sky seemed to go on forever, merging with the dark water until all that could be seen was an endless canvas of darkness and pinpricks of light.

Milah shook her head, tears tracing paths down her face. "I'm afraid I made a mistake."

The words hurt enough that Killian started to withdraw his arm.

Sensing her error, Milah hurried to continue. "Not about leaving with you. I know I love you, even if we are having troubles with sleeping right now, and I know that this-" she gestured broadly at the ship and endless horizon, "-is what I want."

"Then..." his voice tapered off into a question.

"I miss Bae," she said, choking out a sob. "I miss my baby. I keep thinking of him alone with that useless father of his. Maybe I should have brought him with us after all, but I can't go back now. He's gone, and I miss him so much."

Killian stroked her hair, her tears running onto his shoulder. It hurt to see Milah in pain, which was a bit of an unfamiliar situation nowadays. After Liam had died, he had felt his sense of empathy fall fairly flat, but Milah seemed to have a way of awakening long dead feelings inside of him.

"Perhaps we _could_ go back," he said. "I know a pirate ship isn't much of a place for a boy, but we could make it-"

"He'd never leave his father willingly," Milah interrupted, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I was always the worse parent. If he had to choose between us, he'd pick his father every time."

That confession brought forth a new wave of tears, and Killian felt unable to contradict her. He couldn't simply tell her that she was wrong, not if it might be a lie. Lying to Milah didn't seem like an option; shallow words of comfort were too false for someone as real as her, and he knew she'd see right through them.

"I picked myself over my child. Is that wrong?" She lifted her head to look up at him with teary grey eyes.

Killian shook his head. "Remember what you said before? You told me that you couldn't be a good mother while you were miserable. That's still true, love, whether you miss him or not."

Perhaps the words were harsh, but Killian couldn't regret them, not while he held Milah in his arms.

After a moment, Milah nodded. Nonetheless, she cried until the first rays of the sun began to dance on the waves. For once, he didn't mind his sleepless night; Killian understood that she needed time to grieve for the loss of her son. If he could be there for the woman he loved to help her through it, he would.

Later, after her tears had dried, Killian assured her that she could cry about her son with him however often she needed to. After all, he thought, it was the least he could do in exchange for her choosing to come with him. Perhaps he didn't owe her, since it was truly her decision, but he felt as though he did in so many ways. It was hard to put the reason why into words, but he suspected it was because, for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel lonely. It hurt to think that Milah didn't feel the same.

* * *

The Present

* * *

At this point, Killian paused, looking at Emma with some concern. She quickly forced her expression into one of neutrality, but not soon enough.

"You're upset." It was a statement, rather than a question.

She shook her head, unwilling to talk about it.

As usual, Killian pressed on anyway. "You're upset because you felt the same way after you gave up your boy, but you had no one to help you through it." Emma turned to him in annoyance mingled with amazement, only to find him looking quite guilty. "I apologize. Perhaps I should have left that detail out."

Even though she wanted to be angry with him, she found that she couldn't fully muster the emotion when he was looking at her with such worry. So, instead, she tried to shrug it off.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I tried not to think about it, since I knew it was the best thing for him, but of course it sucked to give up my kid."

That, of course, was an understatement. The thought of her child going into the same system that had made her childhood hell had haunted her for years. She hadn't told anyone about it after leaving prison, not that she had anyone to tell with no family and no real friends. It was a part of her life she'd tried desperately to forget. Still, she too could remember sleepless nights filled with crying before she was able to push her child into the corner of her mind of things too painful to look at again. She too had been haunted by thoughts of "did I do the right thing", "where is he now", and "is he alright". How different would those lonely nights have been if she'd had someone to help her through them? It wasn't something she had really considered before, having been too used to being alone at the time to really understand what she was missing.

Now, it made everything suck even more.

"You have him now, though," Killian said, stopping to stare her down. "And you have so many people in Storybrooke who care about you and would be at your side in an instant should you ever need them."

Emma laughed incredulously. "Seriously? You're making this about me wanting to go back to New York?" Anger was beginning to bubble up in her chest in earnest now.

"I'm saying that you should never discount the people who care about you. You have something in Storybrooke that you don't have in New York." Killian's voice was quiet and firm.

Taking a step back from Killian, who had now fully invaded her space as he tended to do, Emma scowled. This was practically emotional blackmail. He couldn't just tell her about how his entire family was dead and then try to guilt her into staying in Storybrooke. It wasn't as though she didn't appreciate her family. Even if he wasn't saying that, it still irked her. The entire situation was different; Killian was from a world of magic, violence, and drama. She wasn't, not really, and neither was Henry. She wasn't forgetting about her parents or anyone else. She also heard the strong double meaning behind the whole 'people who care about you' thing; it was clear that he was talking about more people than her family.

"Did you seriously bring that up just so that you could try to convince me to stay in Storybrooke? Or try to convince me how much you care about me, or how great you are at helping wrecks of women? Is any of this even true at all?"

She regretted her last question as soon as it came out of her mouth. Killian's face, previously so open and earnest, shuttered entirely. A heavy silence fell between them, making the birdcalls of the forest and faint rustle of the leaves overhead suddenly deafening. Even her heartbeat was loud, pounding harshly in her chest as she realized how badly she had messed things up.

Killian looked at the ground, a small unhappy smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. It was a rueful smile, full of self-deprecation. His fist was clenched. Emma realized that he was probably berating himself for being stupid enough to trust someone with something as personal as his past.

"Killian..." she began hesitantly.

He took a step back, face blank once again.

"We'd better get going, Swan," he said.

He walked quickly away from her, not bothering to look back.


	38. Chapter 37

Thank you to everyone who continues to read this, and especially those of you who review. I know I haven't been responding for a long time, but I promise that I read and appreciate every single one. Honestly, they often provide me with a little extra kick to actually finish this. I promise that I'm close and that I'll respond to every single one eventually. Right now, though, I'm still struggling with my depression, and I need to focus on one thing at a time; for now, that means writing chapters instead of responding to reviews.

This chapter covers a lot of time, so there are a lot of breaks. It may seem disjunct but, again, I felt no need to go into huge detail when it came to what we've already watched in the show.

Again, I need to offer my most sincere thanks to Trish Tavor and her fantastic editing. Somehow she continues to put up with my typos and sporadically sent chapters. As always, I owe her for making each chapter the best it can be.

* * *

The Present

* * *

For a moment, all Emma could do was stare at the pirate's retreating form. Then, once the initial shock had worn off, she followed at a half-run. The thought of what she'd done was making her feel sick. Why did she always end up taking things out on the man in front of her? A small part of her wondered if she knew; maybe it was simply because Killian told her the hard truth when she didn't want to hear it.

"Hook! Wait!"

He was walking so quickly that she couldn't help but wonder if he was trying to leave her. Then she remembered that even if he wanted to, he wasn't so stupid as to abandon her if it meant screwing with time to a greater degree. They were both stuck in the past when they didn't belong here, which meant that they were in this together, like it or not. Unless... couldn't he just steal a ship and go to some obscure corner of the land? Surely he wouldn't stop existing just because she did, unless his past self attacked Rumplestiltskin and died. Then, with a flood of relief mingled with guilt, she remembered that he'd said "_we_ should get going". The relief was soon overpowered by guilt; here she was thinking of herself again.

"Killian!"

Finally, she reached him. When he still refused to look at her, she grabbed his arm and forcibly stopped him. "I didn't mean what I said. I was angry-"

"It's fine," he said tersely.

She shook her head, frantic for him to understand. "No. I know you weren't lying to me. I never should have said that, but-"

He jerked his arm out of her grip. "Just leave it, Swan."

Once again, he turned away and left a stunned Emma behind.

She tried to bring it up twice more on their walk without success. As the sun started to set, she gave up and resigned herself to tense silence for the rest of their journey.

In a way, she found the whole situation odd. She'd come to depend on Killian not letting things go until they were resolved. The whole New York issue that had gotten her into this mess was an example of that, surely? But then she realized that he never let things go when it came to _her_, maybe even when it came to what was best for her. Guiltily, she realized that he tended to let things go when it came to her wronging him. Wasn't what had happened with the wicked witch a perfect example? Of course, she had a right to be angry at him for trying to steal away her son and not even bothering to tell her that the witch had cursed him. However, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that he'd really done the best that he could in an impossible situation, and telling him that she couldn't trust him anymore had been going too far. He had a right to be angry about that, but he hadn't been, which only went to show how far she had gone this time. Maybe she had finally pushed him away for good.

Knowing that she was planning to go back to New York, that shouldn't have bothered her. Somehow, though, it did. It filled her with a bubbling panic that she couldn't fully explain.

* * *

"A predictable excess of pomp and grandeur," Killian said, glancing through his spyglass. "Snow should have no trouble sneaking inside."

They were currently seated side by side on a log that was as damp and uncomfortable as everything else Emma had experienced in the forest. She bit back a sigh. Everything felt _wrong_. Killian was speaking to her again, yes, but it was almost worse than the silence. Everything was so businesslike: the opposite of their usual banter.

Emma furrowed her brow. "What about us? We're supposed to just sit here and hope that she pulls it off? I don't like leaving things to chance."

That was true, but she also didn't like the idea of sitting in awkward silence and guilt for the night.

* * *

Fortunately, Rumplestiltskin took care of that. From Killian's expression throughout their encounter, Emma could tell that he was distinctly uncomfortable. However, whether it was because of the presence of his archenemy or the thought of accompanying her to a ball after she had insulted him to such an extent, Emma couldn't say.

As they walked down to the castle, Emma couldn't help trying to patch things up one more time.

"Look, Killian, suffering through a ball is going to be terrible enough without us fighting," Emma began.

Killian's jaw clenched. Okay, maybe "suffering through a ball" wasn't the right way to put it. He probably thought she assumed it would be painful just because she was going with him. She groaned; fixing this was going to be even more difficult than she thought.

She stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop and face her.

"What I said was unforgivable," she said quietly. He glanced up at her, lips parted in clear surprise.

"Swan-"

She shook her head. "It was. I took your trust and stomped on it again because I was angry, not because I actually believed you were manipulating me. I know by now that you wouldn't do that."

His eyes softened at that, although his brows were still furrowed in confusion. The sight only reminded Emma of how badly she had treated him in the past.

"I know it's not fair for me to ask you to forgive me again when you've already done it so many times, but..." She trailed off, looking up at Killian with slightly pleading eyes.

He swallowed hard. "I know that you push people away when you feel threatened. I shouldn't have taken it to heart."

"How couldn't you?" Emma scoffed. "The things you told me... they're beyond personal. I know that, and I still used them to hurt you. I'm sorry." _For everything_, she added in her head. "And I understand if you don't want to trust me with anything so personal again."

The next moment seemed to last an eternity as Emma waited for his response. His face was almost perfectly blank, but his eyes were swirling with some unidentifiable emotion.

When he finally did respond, his voice was carefully controlled. "Thank you."

Then, he offered her his arm, and they continued to make their way down to the castle.

As they walked into the castle, she felt Killian stiffen. She wondered if being a guest at a royal ball brought back painful memories. It had to, she supposed. She wondered vaguely if he had done this since Liam passed away.

"Just when I thought the clothes here couldn't get any worse," she joked as they walked into the ballroom.

Part of her wanted to break the silence, or break him away from whatever memories he may have or may not have been reliving. The other part of her wanted to test the ice and see if things really were back to normal.

"You might not be able to move, Swan, but you cut quite the figure in that dress."

Relief flooded her at his response. He must also have been making an effort to return to their usual rapport if he was flirting with her. Things didn't feel quite the same as before yet, but she had a feeling that they could get there.

* * *

As they danced together, she wondered if things ever could ever return entirely back to normal. Being this physically close to Killian was agony. She could see each individual hair on his cheek and the details of the dark smudges that line his eyes. His scent intoxicated her to the point where she couldn't tell if her dizziness was from that or the dance.

Her mind wandered back to their kiss in Neverland, and she felt the ridiculous urge to replicate it. It was a crazy thought that she quickly pushed away as impossible.

Once again, Emma felt herself overwhelmed by thinking of the past of the man in front of her. It was difficult to wrap her head around the thought of a young Killian doing exactly this with his family or various fine ladies in what was almost another lifetime, hundreds of years ago. He still remembered all of the steps, guiding her through them with the patience of someone who had been doing them all of his life, rather than lifetimes ago. Had he ever danced with Milah?

The strangest thing of all, though, was how safe she felt. She was in another time and another land, doing something she had never done before, but the warmth of Killian's body next to hers filled her with a sense of security that she had rarely experienced before.

It was almost a relief to break away from the dance before she let her imagination run away with her and lead her to dream of the impossible.

* * *

Of course, she had to end up arrested by Regina. If she thought the forest was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the cold, rough stones of the prison. Once again, she almost felt guilty for feeling sorry for herself for her earlier stint in prison. At least it had been more comfortable than _this_. God, the Enchanted Forest was practically medieval.

For the millionth time, her mind wandered to Killian. She wondered vaguely where Killian and his parents had been imprisoned. She'd never asked where his homeland was in relation to the Enchanted Forest. What if his home had been the Enchanted Forest hundreds of years ago? What if this was even a familiar castle, only belonging to someone else now? Was every step in this land just a reminder of a painful past and loved ones long lost?

She pictured him in a similar cell, but quickly brushed the thought away. It had sounded like his jail conditions had been worse than even this. She hoped that he wasn't worrying about her too much.

She couldn't help but glance around at the graffiti covering the walls. The small scratched names and dates and "help me"s were too numerous to count. Her hand wandered over the name of another Emma, almost faded from the wall by the assault of time. It wasn't in her hand, but it wouldn't have surprised her if it was, and she had simply traveled back in time again to an earlier date. For a moment, her mind was flooded with the thought of hundreds of Emma's throughout time, ghosts of herself throughout the years that would briefly appear like a blip on a radar before disappearing.

Funnily enough, she felt as though prison would be more bearable if Hook were here with her. He would make some sort of quip that would lighten the situation or say something surprisingly deep as he sometimes did. She realized she missed him. Pathetic. She was getting far too used to company.

Unbidden, words from her own past echoed through her head. _That's how you know you've really got a home.'Cause when you leave it, there's this feeling that you can't shake. You just miss it._

God, prison was really driving her crazy. It was definitely time to figure out how to escape.

* * *

Having someone actually come for her was a new experience. Emma was so used to relying on herself and her own ingenuity that she was genuinely shocked at Hook's rescue attempt. When she said "no one saves me but me", she meant it. It wasn't simply her asserting her own abilities out of pride, though; it was a subtle admission of the fact that no one had ever bothered to save her. She had never meant enough to anyone.

The first time she had been in prison, she had spent more nights than she cared to admit dreaming of Neal coming to save her. Her rational mind had known that it wasn't going to happen, but whatever childlike side was left in her had still hoped that Neal would care enough for her to turn himself in. All might even be forgiven in that case, particularly if it was just an honest mistake. She would wait for him to get out of jail, and then they could go to Tallahassee and she would finally have a home.

He never came, and she eventually stopped dreaming.

Now, suddenly, there was someone who would risk his own freedom and life for her without being obligated to. In spite of the situation, she couldn't hide the small smile that played on her lips at the sight of the pirate before her.

* * *

The smile was soon wiped away by the sight of her mother being consumed by a ball of flame. In some corner of her mind that wasn't consumed by denial and desolation, she was aware of strong arms that pulled her into an embrace. Killian held her protectively, almost as if he hoped to keep the pieces of her together by sheer force of will. For once, she accepted the support. She needed it too badly, and it was actually there when she needed it: another first.

* * *

Emma stared dully at the fire, tears stinging her face. She had never felt more empty in her life, not even when Neal had left her in prison or when he'd died. Yes, she had cared for him, but this was her _mother_. This was the woman that she had spent twenty-eight years of her life searching for and yearning for. She was the woman who had become her best friend and then desperately tried to find a place in Emma's life after discovering their true relationship, only to be pushed away. She was one of the few people who truly put Emma first, and now she was just gone.

A hesitant voice cut into her mourning. "After my brother passed, all I could do was relive that final, terrible moment. Don't do that to yourself, love."

Through her desolation, Emma felt a rush of gratitude for the man beside her. Even after she had hurt him so badly, he was still willing to offer her his past if he thought it could help her.

How had he survived this feeling of loss over and over again? It was becoming easier and easier for Emma to understand how the genuinely good man beside her had been pushed to become the man she had met.

Loss was all too familiar to him, and yet he was trying to help her carry her own burden of loss. He had held her close at the moment she had watched her mother die and, more shockingly, hadn't left her since. It was difficult to comprehend why he would put himself through this. Deep down, she knew the reason. Still, it was too frightening for her to let herself accept that someone could care about her this much.

Killian was another one of the people who put her first, she knew.

* * *

Emma hadn't thought she could feel worse than she did thinking her mother was dead. That was until her mother didn't recognize her when she hugged her. She had a feeling that Killian knew exactly how much it shook her.

* * *

Emma lay on the ground, eyes fixed on her sleeping mother's face. When she watched her like this, she could almost imagine that things were normal. This could be their first trip together to the Enchanted Forest, or even something as normal as camping in Storybrooke. Why had they never done normal things together?

A tear slipped down her cheek onto the grass. "Killian?"

He was sleeping close enough to her to hear her quiet call. Only half of her had expected him to react; his deep, even breaths made her guess that he was asleep. Nevertheless, he jerked awake quickly and quietly, already alert enough to fix intense eyes on hers. His face softened as he took in the stray tears on her face, which she quickly rubbed away.

"Aye, love?"

"Um," she swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. "I didn't mean to wake you."

For the millionth time that day, Killian reached over to brush away the tears she had missed. Vaguely, Emma realized that she never would have allowed anything of the kind before this trip.

"You're having trouble sleeping," he said.

She nodded, face flushing. She was already regretting giving in to the impulse to wake the pirate, but her need for comfort, or at least to reduce the desperate loneliness filling her, was far too strong.

"I was wondering... I completely understand if you don't want to, but..."

"You need a distraction," he finished.

Emma nodded minutely.

Killian's gave her a sympathetic smile. Then, without protest, he gave her exactly what she needed.

"Hmm. Perhaps I should tell you some happier memories..."


	39. Chapter 38

Thanks for your many kind words last chapter. Again, I always read and appreciate them, even if I haven't responded yet.

I know that it's probably a shock for this to be up so soon after my abysmal updating for the past while, but here you are! The wonderful Trish Tavor wasn't able to beta this one, so if there are any errors, they're my own. Comments are always appreciated. :)

If things go as planned, there should be 2-3 more (really long) chapters. I may have to split the next one into two just because of the things I want to cover, but we are nearing the end. I'm planning to have this monster finished before 2016. Since my beta is away, I may not post them this week, but you can expect 2-3 more pretty quickly after that. Again, thank you to everyone who has been kind enough to continue reading this monster project, especially those who have been consistently reviewing. Believe me, I notice who you are, and I'm sending you each a million hugs; seriously, knowing that you enjoy it is the reason I haven't given up on this entirely over the past really rough months.

Happy holidays!

* * *

The Past - 1815

* * *

"I love poetry."

After finishing his note with a flourish, Killian sighed and scratched out the entire line of music. He threw the page aside, watching it flutter to the ground in the dim candlelight. Milah snickered audibly as he sat back in frustration, leaning against a stack of old discarded costumes. "Why?"

Her face lit up more brightly than the candle. Killian loved it when he saw that expression pass her face. It meant that he was in for a long, passionate speech.

"Well, it's like art and music, isn't it? It's like painting a picture with your words. You can almost see them dancing across the sky as you read them, not that I'm all that wonderful at reading. Poetry makes me want to be great at it, though. Then I could watch everything normal become brilliant, just like when I draw." The way her tongue caressed the words made Killian think that every word Milah spoke was poetry. She could paint the horizon with an image by just opening her mouth.

Milah's soft voice drifted away, and she continued drawing whatever she was working on with a far-off expression on her face.

That didn't fool Killian. He knew that she was just waiting for more prompting to continue.

"What made you think of that?" He asked, trying to push his infuriatingly monotonous double bass line out of his head.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

Milah smirked. "Well, I suppose that I could tell you. I wrote you a poem. Or, rather, I made it up in my head. I wouldn't want to write it down because it would be too embarrassing; my cursive is terrible. Besides, I think poetry should be a fleeting thing - a brief impression - just like music. It should disappear afterwards and just leave you with a feeling of fullness."

Raising an eyebrow, Killian leaned forward. "Well, then, let's hear it."

Milah leaned forward as well. "You can't be angry at me."

Like a flame doused with water, Killian's excitement quickly disappeared.

He scowled. "Why?"

She smacked him lightly on the arm. "You haven't even heard it yet. You can't be angry."

"Why?!" He repeated more loudly.

"Because it's about your father and what you told me about him."

Killian stood up abruptly, gathering his sheets of paper and preparing to leave. "I don't want to hear a poem about my father. I don't even want to think about him again." He turned to her accusingly. "You know that!"

Milah folded her arms. "I honestly think you'll like it now that you've been warned."

Then, as was Milah's way, she ignored his attempts to leave entirely and started reciting.

"Long ago, I was wounded.

I lived

to revenge myself

against my father, not

for what he was-

for what I was: from the beginning of time,

in childhood, I thought

that pain meant

I was not loved.

It meant I loved." *

Partway through the poem, Killian had paused. Now he could only stare at her, astounded by how well Milah understood him. He'd barely told her anything about his father, and yet she understood his self-loathing and self-doubt. Beyond that, she'd comforted him in a way that he hadn't been for years.

Milah continued drawing as though nothing had happened, although the smirk pasted on her face meant that she had seen how much her words affected him. Killian couldn't quite decide whether to thank her or yell at her.

In the end, he settled for sitting back down and finishing his song.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"That was actually a good poem."

Hook glanced at her. "You look surprised. Did the other ones not meet your distinguished tastes?"

From his mischievous grin and his mocking emphasis on "distinguished", Emma had the feeling that he didn't think her taste in literature was actually all that great. Then again, he probably found modern American speech pathetically juvenile compared to the way people spoke two hundred years ago; no wonder he expected so little from the literature in her world.

Captain Hook, a literature snob. Shocking.

"No, they were good, but this was different. Simpler, maybe."

Killian nodded in agreement. "Aye. She had knack for creating unique things. In the best possible way, of course."

* * *

The Past - 1823

* * *

A month later, Killian was still having trouble grasping that Milah was actually with him. Every day that he woke up beside her, he was almost overwhelmed by the fact that she had chosen him: Milah, the most passionate, unique woman he had ever met. She was special in the best way, something that Killian had recognized from a young age. Every morning, he woke up before her and couldn't resist pressing a gentle kiss to her lips and laying next to her for a while as she slept, simply feeling grateful for being with her again.

When Milah woke up, she would kiss him, her eyes hazed with sleep but still soft and loving. It quickly turned into a routine that made each of their mornings together the perfect start to the day.

One morning, Milah woke up and glanced to her right, ready to plant a kiss on her lover's lips. It took her a moment to fully register that the mattress next to her was cold.

When Killian came in, whistling a jaunty tune from his navy days, Milah was sitting at their table with a sullen expression on her face. She didn't bother to even glance at him, instead attacking her breakfast with the vigour of someone who had been personally wronged by the contents of her plate.

"Good morning, love," he said, leaning down to press a kiss on her cheek.

She dodged with a scowl. "Where were you?"

"We docked this morning," he replied, unfazed.

She took a sip of her wine. "You weren't on the ship."

Killian shook his head, smirking, before pulling something from his pockets and dropping it on Milah's lap. The item - a sketchbook - was soon followed by charcoal and paint.

"I know you weren't able to bring much of anything with you."

She stared at the items in silence, then opened the book and ran a dainty hand across a page. There was a sparkle in her eye, as though she was already seeing the possibilities of what she could create.

When she looked at him, there were tears in her eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Not for the first time, Emma wondered what Killian saw her. Everything she heard about Milah only reminded her of how much Killian had loved the woman, maybe to the point of "true love", if such a thing existed. If that was something they had, how could he ever have feelings for her? She knew without a doubt that she was completely unlike Milah. Emma didn't think she had an artistic bone in her body. In fact, she distinctly remembered almost failing art class in school. She also remembered being terrible in music class, with more than one teacher telling her that she was tone-deaf.

Then again, she reminded herself, this had been two hundred years ago. Maybe his tastes had changed. In fact, maybe it wasn't an accident that he was interested in someone unlike Milah. Maybe, even now, dating someone too similar to Milah would just be painful.

For once, she was able to push away the strange jealousy and insecurity gnawing at her insides when it came to Milah and just feel sadness for Killian and what he had lost. Unusually, Killian was too lost in the memories he was recounting to notice her mental shift.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Milah spent the entirety of the day on the deck, completely oblivious to the loading of supplies and general noise around her. Every once in a while, Killian would catch himself staring at her, watching the way her curls fell onto her shoulders or the way she bit her lip when she was particularly absorbed in her work. As the sun started to set, Milah still sat on the deck, almost oblivious to the loss of light. Wordlessly, Killian settled beside her with a bottle of rum, a lantern, and some paper of his own. Most of his men were at the local pubs or brothels, so the ship was unusually quiet.

It was odd to really write music again. Since the death of his brother, composing had been a struggle. Now, for the first time in a long time, he actually felt like he could create something worthwhile.

Both of them quickly lost track of time as they lost themselves in their work. Killian guessed that multiple hours had passed by the time Milah broke the silence.

"I have a gift for you too," she said abruptly, clearing her throat.

Killian fully expected to have a sketch thrown at him, so he was surprised when Milah began reciting.

"Many in aftertimes will say of you

'He loved her' – while of me what will they say?

Not that I loved you more than just in play,

For fashion's sake as idle women do.

Even let them prate; who know not what we knew

Of love and parting in exceeding pain.

Of parting hopeless here to meet again,

Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.

But by my heart of love laid bare to you.

My love that you can make not void nor vain,

Love that foregoes you but to claim anew

Beyond this passage of the gate of death,

I charge you at the Judgment make it plain

My love of you was life and not a breath."**

Grey eyes turned to him expectantly, if slightly nervously. In the end, Killian had no words to show her just how much the poem had meant to him.

He simply kissed her.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma was beginning to regret asking for happy memories, particularly if it meant that she would just have to listen to stories of Killian and Milah kissing.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The next day, Milah insisted that he play his violin for her. It fell back into his hands as easily as embracing a former lover.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma couldn't help scoffing. "You consider that _easy_?"

The thought of ever being close to Neal again had been a terrible one when he first returned. Certainly, she had lingering feelings for him, but she didn't think things could ever go back to the way they were. A return to an intimate relationship with him seemed too painful.

Killian, however, seemed to have the opposite view.

"Of course. Esmeralda and I returned to each other multiple times."

She frowned, sitting up and propping her head on her hand so that she could face him. "I thought you said that she was in love with someone else?"

He shook his head. "She was, but it ended badly."

Emma struggled to remember the book. She seemed to remember just finding a summary on the internet rather than actually reading it for school. The Disney movie was much easier to remember. "Phoebus left her? Or died, or something?"

Killian shot her a perplexed look. "How do you know that name?"

The thought of having to explain the book or the concept of a movie, never mind possibly having to explain Killian's own presence - oh, God... or worse, his portrayal - in the fiction of her world seemed far too daunting to fully go into. Instead, she avoided the question entirely.

"I was actually right?" That would be a first, considering how wrong most adaptations in her world seemed to be.

He laughed. "Sorry, love, but no."

Emma was now thoroughly confused. "Then who was her lover?"

"A priest named Frollo. He gave up his place in the church for her, and his adopted son killed him in a jealous rage."

Well, that was unexpected. She seemed to remember Frollo being the villain.

"And Phoebus?"

Killian shook his head, a smirk on his face. "The man who owned the brothel where she worked. He tried to frame her for a murder when she spurned him, but Frollo saved her. When he died, she was heartbroken. I visited her multiple times after Milah's death when I went on various runs to my world for Pan."

That opened up a whole new set of questions, which caused Killian to quickly press on, clearly sick of the topic.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Soon, more traditions started. Killian would sometimes set Milah's poetry to music, much to her pleasure. He started to play his violin more, leading to many lively nights aboard the deck for the entire crew.

Milah's presence brought many unexpected things to the ship, but perhaps the most unexpected was Kraken.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Mid-yawn, Emma froze in surprise. "Like the sea monster?"

Killian chuckled. "No."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"A dog?!"

When he had first walked into his cabin, he'd done a double take. Even now, he kept expecting the little creature to disappear.

Milah pulled the fluffy little creature to her chest. "Not so loud. You're scaring him."

Then she planted a small kiss on its head, causing him to start wagging his tail.

"I'm scaring him? What the bloody hell is he doing in here?" Killian asked incredulously, although he did take his voice down several notches.

"I found him at the docks trying to steal our rations." Then she turned back to the dog and began speaking in a high-pitched cooing voice that Killian could barely believe was actually coming out of her mouth. "Clever little boy. You ran circles around Mullins, didn't you?"

Groaning, Killian closed his eyes briefly. "You're telling me that this little mongrel outsmarted one of my crew?"

He had always known that Mullins wasn't the sharpest, but he'd had more faith in him than that. Perhaps Mullins needed to be taught a lesson. Nothing too extreme, but something that would teach the fool a lesson or two about vigilance.

Milah laughed. "He was halfway through his dinner before Mullins noticed that half of the dried meat was missing."

Killian stared at the animal. He had huge, black eyes and a big black nose. His legs and belly were white, as was the area around his mouth and nose, extending up his forehead in a triangle. The rest of the animal was black, including velvety, floppy ears. He also had black spots on the white area surrounding his muzzle. The damn beast had _freckles_.

All at once, Milah's amused expression fell. "Mullins is a bully. I had to save this boy from being cut into pieces." She shot Killian a sharp look. "You should punish him."

The creature was still looking at him with his soft, innocent eyes. Before he knew it, Killian had walked over and started running a hand through its fur. The puppy's small tail started to thump rhythmically on Milah's lap.

"I'll definitely punish him. Sweating would work quite nicely, I think," Killian mused.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Sweating?"

By now, Killian was apparently resigned to her ignorance about the workings of a ship. He barely batted an eye at the question.

"There are different forms. In this case, Mullins was surrounded at a mast by crewmen with needles who tried to jab at him while he tried to dodge. I told the men to go somewhat easy on him; I didn't want to bleed him out, just teach him a lesson."***

Emma was, of course, appalled. Fortunately, the absolute darkness of night in the forest did wonders to hide her reaction.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Keelhauling would be better," Milah said vindictively.

Killian planted a kiss on her temple. "Mullins may be a stupid brute, but he's a useful stupid brute."

She pouted but didn't argue. She'd already seen Mullins's value in a fight; his ability to intimidate due to his size and ruthlessness did more to encourage surrender than his skill, but it did the trick nonetheless.

"If he's as bright as you say, we can keep him. However, I don't want to see any messes left on my ship-"

"You won't," Milah cut in, smiling from ear to ear.

The next day, Mullins was punished for his inattention. Afterwards, he had glared at the dog and declared that meeting him had been worse than meeting a kraken out at sea. From that day forward, the crew had referred to the pup as Kraken, and the name simply stuck. Killian soon became fond of the animal in spite of himself, even if the little thing did do his best to commandeer his and Milah's bed. He _was_ extraordinarily clever and useful. He could perform simple tasks aboard the ship - Milah declared that he could do them better than Mullins - and even proved himself to be useful in fights once he was bigger. It helped that Milah, true to her word, cleaned up any messes made during Kraken's training. While Killian had initially planned to have nothing to do with the dog, he soon found himself invested in training him as well. It helped that the dog followed him around like a shadow, even assisting him in enforcing his orders with little nips and barks.

"Perhaps I should demote Owen and make _you_ my first mate," Killian told Kraken one day.

The dog just wagged his tail. Killian could have sworn that he was smiling.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Somehow, Emma had never pictured animals to be part of Killian's past. The thought of him and the dog was oddly endearing, especially because he spoke of him so fondly.

Then, a thought occurred to her. "What happened to him?"

"He was shot down in Neverland by a Lost Boy," Killian said morosely.

She felt her stomach plunge. She'd hoped that Killian's dog could have died happily of old age even if his family couldn't, but apparently that was too much to ask.

"I tried to steal a dog from an animal shelter once as a kid," Emma said. "A rottweiler."

The memory spilled out without her even pausing to think about it. She had almost forgotten about the incident, but she'd somehow blurted it out anyway.

There was silence as Killian seemed to consider this.

"A good breed. Still, quite a large, aggressive dog for a little girl."

Emma heard the question behind his statement. After a moment's hesitation, she offered an explanation. She supposed that the best way to build trust back up after what had happened was to be vulnerable herself for once.

"I knew they were protective and loyal with a scary reputation. I wanted a friend who could keep me safe."

Killian shifted in the darkness beside her. "From?"

For the oddest moment, Emma was reminded of the occasional sleepover she'd had in her youth when they had played 'Truth'. Watching his silhouette in the dark and listening to his reactions rather than seeing them filled her with the somewhat bitter nostalgia that came with memories from her time in the system. She'd never really had many friends, and the poor girls who'd had her over - most likely due to a pity intervention by their mothers - probably got sick of playing 'Truth' very quickly. Playing a game with a human lie detector couldn't have been very fun, especially because Emma had always called them out on lying. In fairness, Emma was pretty sick of lies by that point. On the plus side, Emma was able to lie even if the other girls hadn't been able to. She'd been able to pretend that her parents died tragically rather than just leaving her on the side of a highway.

With Killian, Emma doubted that she could get away with lying as easily. He made an effort to understand her... and he was actually able to. He was interested in her answers, which was already a huge difference from adolescent sleepovers.

Some elements were the same, though. She'd felt safer at sleepovers than she normally did. She could pretend for a while that she was part of a family, especially because the parents of whatever girl was having her over tended to be quite nice, if stiff and polite. Then, there was the darkness shielding her as she and her 'friends' stayed up talking. When she couldn't see the faces of the other girls, she could pretend that they liked her. She felt safe in the dark with Killian, too. That would be something for 'Truth' if she played with those girls now;_ I went camping with Captain Hook in Fairytale land and wasn't afraid of him._

"Love?"

Emma realized that he was still waiting for an answer.

"Well, you know, to protect me from the bullies and people I didn't like: foster parents, the people who picked me up to take me to a new family or back to a group home, authority figures in general, other kids. Everyone, really."

"Aye, fair enough." His voice was soft.

She swallowed hard. "Anyhow, they caught me before I'd even figured out how to open the cage."

She still remembered seeing the huge dog, his head cocked to the side as she approached. He had sniffed her cautiously through the bars, then licked her, much to her childish delight. Softly, she had promised him that they were going to escape. Then, just as she was studying the lock, an employee had discovered her and angrily demanded to know where her parents were. Her foster mom had been furious when she got the phone call.

"So you figured out how to protect yourself," Killian said, matter-of-fact.

At the silence that met his observation, he hurriedly backtracked. "I apologize for the assumption."

"No, you're right," Emma said. "I did learn to protect myself." Although, she mused, maybe she hadn't learned it quite well enough; Neal had finished teaching her that lesson when he betrayed her.

Killian's form was very still in the darkness. She wondered what he was thinking.

"Anyway," she said, eager to move the subject away from her; she could only be vulnerable so long. "What else happened with you and Milah?"

* * *

The Past

* * *

While living with Milah was wonderful, not everything was fun and games. There were arguments of course, but even more threatening was their lifestyle. A pirate's life was a good one, but piracy inevitably involved violence.

It only took four months of Milah being onboard for Killian to see that more clearly than ever before. A threat to his own life hadn't particularly bothered him, but Milah was a different matter, particularly because she had a habit of running into trouble.

Battles had been a matter of contention between them since the first one Milah had been present for. On that occasion, Jacques and Killian had joined together to take down a particularly large naval ship, planning to split whatever treasures were on it. It was a simple maneuver that they had done successfully more than once. In this case, Killian had to admit that an alliance with Jacques was a great thing. He could use his tactical experience from the navy to a greater degree when there were two attacking ships in play. Their interests also aligned nicely; Jacques wanted treasure, and Killian wanted revenge on the crown and enough gold to keep his crew happy. It was a win-win situation with a fairly easy victory guaranteed.

With all of his planning, though, Killian had failed to foresee one thing. He had made the assumption that Milah would stay safely in their cabin. Unfortunately, he'd never considered it a point of a contention, which meant that her response took him totally by surprise.

"Absolutely not."

He stared, gobsmacked, as Milah grabbed a cutlass from the ship's supply of spare weapons.

"Milah." She ignored him. "Love." She lifted the blade, eyeing it with interest. "You've never" -he pulled her gently towards him, ignoring her attempts to wriggle free - "used a sword in your life-"

"It's simple. 'The pointy end goes in the other guy,'" she quoted, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Bloody hell, Milah. This isn't a joke!" He growled.

Her face turned stony. "You're right. It isn't. There's no way I'm letting you go out there without me."

Killian barked out a laugh. "You won't _let_ me? I'm the captain of this ship-"

"You may be in charge of the ship, but you certainly aren't in charge of me-"

"-and I've been using a sword since I was a child. Not all of the naval sailors will have the same experience, but I guarantee that they'll have more experience than you. A handful at least will be formidable swordsmen." The thought filled Killian with excitement; he loved a challenge nearly as much as he loved revenge.

Milah glared. "All the more reason for me to help you."

Finally, she managed to pull out of his grasp and attempted to sidestep him, trying to wave her sword in a menacing manner. Rather than intimidating him, it just reminded him how inexperienced she was.

He ignored the sword and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to face him. "Do you think that they'll show you mercy? Of course they bloody won't. Letting you at them would be suicide."

She offered him a smile. "Suicide for them? I agree."

As much as Killian loved her, he had to admit that Milah could be infuriatingly stubborn. His jaw tightened, and he considered just throwing her over his shoulder and forcing her into his cabin. Then, his thoughts were interrupted as she ran a hand over his cheek.

"If it's suicide, it will be for a good cause: protecting you."

He shook his head, exasperated. "You won't be bloody protecting me. I'll be distracted out of my mind worrying about you."

At this, she paused, and Killian sensed that victory was near.

He was right. She stayed in the cabin for every battle for four months, although it was easy to sense her discontentment with this arrangement. Really, Killian should have known her well enough to expect her to do something rash.

Somehow, though, he was still surprised when she appeared on the deck, cutlass in hand, to face another group of pirates who were stupid enough to try to attack them.

Killian had been in the middle of a duel with the other captain when he'd noticed her, dark hair flying as she swung her sword like a lumberjack might swing an axe. He could see someone coming up behind her with a clear deadly intent, but Owen had fortunately seen and intervened. That was a stroke of luck for Milah, but not for Killian; the sight of Milah in danger was enough of a distraction for the other captain to land a significant cut on Killian's right arm.

Swearing, he switched his sword to his left hand, forcing himself to ignore the warm blood trickling down his other arm onto the deck of his ship. By the time Killian managed to dispatch the other captain, their remaining enemies had surrendered. Killian offered them a place on his ship for fighting valiantly. A handful took his offer. The rest were sent back to their ship, which Killian ordered his crew to set fire to. Normally, Killian would have done the same to the pirates who accepted his offer; he had no room on his ship for cowards. However, a quick glance around his ship revealed that his own crew had suffered more than its usual number of casualties, so he could offer some mercy for practicality's sake. After all, perhaps accepting his offer showed survival instinct and brains rather than cowardice. He valued loyalty more, but loyalty to another dead captain was useless.

He watched the burning ship disappear on the horizon and gave the usual threats to his new crewmembers. By that point, he was feeling quite dizzy, so he handed control over to Owen and fumed his way down to his cabin.

It took him some stumbling around to find a full rum bottle. He had just opened it and taken a long swig when Milah burst in.

"I told you that you need someone to protect you," she said, gesturing at his arm.

Killian shot her a murderous look. "And I told you that you being there would distract me! You almost died!"

He pried his jacket off with some difficulty, followed by his blood-soaked shirt. The whole process was accompanied by a plethora of swearing.

"Look at me!" Milah shouted, throwing out her arms. "I'm not the one who's bleeding."

"No, you're just the one who compromised the lives of multiple people through a selfish whim!" Killian said through gritted teeth as he prepared to pour rum on the gash.

Her response was drowned out by his expressive string of expletives as the alcohol ran over the fairly deep wound. By then, she was rummaging through a drawer for a needle and thread.

"What lives?" She repeated over the sound of various items hitting the sides of the drawer as she threw them around.

"Owen's, for one. He had to intervene before you were gutted. I'm certain that other members of my crew were likewise distracted trying to protect you." Killian briefly reminded himself to reward them suitably. Surely, Owen would have noticed anyone else who stepped up to protect Milah. "And, of course, you risked mine, but you already knew that."

That harsh accusation caused Milah's face to flush with anger. "Well, maybe if you'd bothered to teach me how to fight properly, you wouldn't have been distracted! But, no, you just send me down here to worry. That's not the way I work, Killian! I can't just sit around and do nothing!"

She punctuated her last word by slamming the drawer shut. She approached him, brandishing the needle threateningly.

"You could have _asked_," he shouted back.

Milah didn't respond. Instead, she grabbed the bottle from him and poured some rum on the needle, which she then threaded. After she knotted it, Killian tried to take it from her, but she smacked his hand away.

His breath hissed through his teeth as she pushed the needle through his skin.

"Rum," he grunted.

Milah picked up the bottle and shoved it at him. He took a few quick gulps before she resumed her stitching.

"Ugh," she muttered several stitches later.

She grabbed up his discarded shirt and wiped her red-stained hands and the new blood off of his arm. Then, she tossed it away and started rummaging through more drawers and cupboards.

"What are you doing?" Killian asked, voice strained.

"Getting rum."

He held up the bottle still in his left hand, his rings clinking against the glass. "I have some."

"I need my own," she snapped, finally finding another full bottle.

She poured some onto his arm again - prompting fresh swearing and cries of pain from Killian - before downing a good portion of the bottle herself.

A few stitches later, she started speaking. "Fine, it was stupid of me. But it was stupid of you too."

"Aye." The concession was easily pried from his lips when he noticed her wet eyes.

Silence fell, punctuated only by Killian's occasional reaction to the pain or the sound of gulping as both of them continued to make their way through the rum bottles.

"Done," Milah finally said, breaking the remaining string away from the knot she'd just tied.

She moved to wipe her hands again, but Killian grabbed her arm. As she turned to him, he gently guided her face towards his and captured her lips with his own. To his relief, she kissed him back.

She pulled away. "I should bandage it."

Killian waited until she had finished, then he pressed his lips to hers again. She kissed him harder this time, running still-bloody hands through his hair and over his face. Perhaps it was the pain, or the blood loss, or the copious amounts of rum he had consumed, but Killian found kissing her to be even more intoxicating than usual.

As they broke the kiss, panting, their foreheads pressed against each other, Killian made a promise. "I'll teach you how to fight if you'd like, love."

She smiled. "Good."

* * *

True to his word, Killian gave her a first lesson as soon as his right arm was mostly functional. If they were sparring, he would have just used his left hand, but he figured that it would easier to guide her through some of the movements and get them into her muscle memory.

He stood behind her, their bodies pressed together, and covered her right hand with his own. Then, he walked her through the basics at a slow pace that was as much to get his stiff arm used to working again as to cater to her low level.

"I didn't expect sword-fighting to be like this," Milah said, slightly breathless. Killian smirked; he knew that it wasn't from the sword movements. "If I'd known that learning would be this wonderful, I would have insisted that we do it much sooner."

"As would I," Killian replied, delighting in the small shiver that ran through her as he whispered in her ear.

In the end, the first lesson only lasted half an hour.

"Oh, sod it," Milah said, and turned her head to kiss him.

In the end, Milah became quite a skilled sword-fighter. And Killian had to admit that fighting their battles side by side was actually quite satisfying.

* * *

The Present

* * *

For a moment, Emma's mind wandered. Perhaps it was only because she was growing tired, but she couldn't help imagining the scene with one core difference; Killian was teaching her rather than Milah. She was the one feeling his warm body pressed against her back, feeling his strong arm guide hers. The other one would be around her waist or on her hip, she imagined, the cold metal of his hook bleeding through her clothes. Then she would be the one shivering at his voice and tilting her head at just the right angle to kiss him.

She pushed the thought away, once again relieved for the cover of darkness.

* * *

The Past

* * *

With her newfound skill, the two were able to have many less-than-legal adventures together. They traveled to far-off lands in search of pleasure and gold, battled their native kingdom one ship at a time, and destroyed anyone who dared to threaten them or Jacques. Killian's notoriety began to rise, as did the price on his head. Still, in spite of the rising danger, it was a time that made both Killian and Milah feel immortal. There were dangerous times and not-so-pleasant times, but the two of them found the happiness in each other that they had barely dared to dream of before.

They carried on that way for six years; Killian was twenty-nine when the beginning of the end of this period of happiness occurred. For such a long time with such vast happiness, it was amazing to Killian that everything could end with only two words:

"Arrest him."

Killian rose to his feet, sword already drawn on instinct. He was at a seedy pub near the docks, planning his newest heist with Jacques. It took him less than a second for Killian to put the pieces together. His "friend" was staring in a determined fashion into the amber liquid in front of him rather than joining Killian on his feet with his sword drawn. Briefly, Killian considered running the pirate through, but he had far more threatening matters to attend to. His eyes rapidly scanned the soldiers still pouring into the pub, mentally calculating his odds. Stomach sinking, Killian realized that there was no chance of victory, even with the few crew members that had accompanied him to the pub; in fact, a quick glance around showed him that they had disappeared. With a surge of anger, he realized that they were likely in on this little set-up too.

"The king wants you alive, if possible," one of the soldiers said, "but we won't hesitate to give him your head if you give us trouble."

At that piece of news, Killian briefly considered either killing himself or fighting and taking as many soldiers down with him as possible. Then he thought of Milah. If there was any chance at all that he could get out of this - no matter how slim - he had to take it for her.

Clenching his teeth, he dropped his sword to the ground with a clatter.

As one of the soldiers chained his wrists, another moved towards Jacques. The older pirate finally looked up to receive his gold and a slip of paper sealed with king's seal.

"Your pardon," the soldier said.

Ever the pirate, Jacques glanced it over, shoulders drooping in relief as he saw that it was legitimate.

Then he shrugged at Killian, who was now having his feet manacled. "Sorry, mate. T'ings were getting too risky. You know what they say; every man for 'imself."

Of course, Killian had a million responses to that - mostly involving expletives - but he was gagged before he could say them. As Killian was given a shove towards the door, all he could think of was Milah. He hoped that it wouldn't break her heart to hear that he was dead.

* * *

*By Louise Gluck. It's a more modern one, but I thought that Milah might write poetry that's a little bit rougher and more direct than flowery 19th-century language at a younger age.

**Credit to Christina Rossetti.

*** An actual pirate punishment.


	40. Chapter 39

Thanks for reading (and for the lovely comments/favourites, which are always exciting)! This one's a long one, but I hope you all enjoy.

Once again, I have to give my deepest gratitude to my beta, Trish Tavor. Seriously, she is amazing!

* * *

The Past - 1829

* * *

It took only two days to reach the prison. Still, Killian's discomfort caused the time to slow to an almost unbearable crawl.

Loaded into a prison wagon, he was thrown about with every bump on the road. At first, he'd tried to hold onto the bars to keep himself steady, but his hands ached too much and grew too blistered to keep it up forever. The wagon was made up only of bars and a roof, with hardly enough room to turn around and certainly not enough room to stand. To make matters worse, a torrential rain started to fall on the evening of the first day. Huge droplets blew through the bars with a painful force, soaking Killian to the skin with each new gust of the chill autumn wind. He wished desperately for his coat, but they had taken it away before loading him inside. As a result, he could only fold in on himself and shiver.

Despite the cold, the rain was a blessing in some ways. The soldiers hadn't bothered to provide him with food or water, and after twenty-four hours, his throat was already burning. Even though his hands were numb and shaking from the cold, he still cupped them again and again to catch the rain and bring it to his chapped lips.

Worst of all by far were the people. The soldiers didn't allow Killian out, even to relieve himself or stretch, nor did they do anything to make his journey remotely comfortable. They even left the manacles on. Killian was quick to point out that it was a stupid idea; after all, it wasn't like he was going anywhere. As it turned out, the soldiers didn't like criticism - particularly when it came to their intelligence - and Killian had the bruises to prove it.

The soldiers also did nothing to protect Killian from any angry people they came across. He came to dread going through villages and cities. At best, Killian got insults or rotten fruit thrown at him. At worst, he got rocks or excrement.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma stared at him. "Seriously? Why would they do that?"

Killian's silhouette shrugged. "The general populace doesn't look upon pirates kindly."

"Not liking someone doesn't usually make people throw things at them, in my experience."

It was hard for Emma to wrap her head around a police force that wouldn't protect a prisoner. Most people don't like thieves either, but Emma was generally treated with at least some dignity and detachment during her own arrest and incarceration. Public humiliation was difficult for Emma to imagine, even if she remembered learning about it in history class. Of course, being arrested and cuffed was humiliating, but there was no one there to see it. No one jeered at her at her trial, never mind throwing things at her.

Although it was dark, Emma could still feel Killian's gaze upon her.

"Your world is less harsh than mine was, then. In my experience, most people will take any chance they have to prey on the weak, or those they perceive as lower than themselves. I imagine that you think that people like your parents fill the Enchanted Forest but, I assure you, they're a bloody rarity, even for their time."

To her surprise, there was no bitterness in Killian's tone. He sounded as matter-of-fact as though he were stating the weather. At first, Emma felt a twinge of sadness that Killian could be so completely disillusioned. Then, she thought back to all of the bullies she'd come across: other children, adults who talked down to her as a child, people who threw her away as easily as an object that had ceased to be valuable, the people she tracked down as a bail bondswoman. She'd been disillusioned by people too, but she'd never quite thought of it in terms of the way Killian had just described.

"My world can be harsh too," Emma found herself saying. "It's just harsh in a different way. People still prey on the weak. They just do it less obviously."

After a moment, Killian nodded. "I suppose it's human nature, whatever your time or your world."

Perhaps that was exactly what made a hero, Emma mused; perhaps a hero was someone who fought against the need to raise themselves up at another's expense. She glanced towards where she knew her parents were sleeping and once again felt a keen longing for them. Killian was right; they were rare.

She had never appreciated them more.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The journey served to teach Killian a hard lesson that he'd been slowly realizing throughout his life but never entirely accepted:

People were fundamentally evil. He was glad that he had never tried to become king, because he certainly didn't want to risk his life to protect these people. They deserved what they got and more. Collateral damage was not only acceptable, but morally right. He could see why his grandmother had burned people during her crusade for the throne. He would gladly watch the villagers burn, and he would relish their screams.

Thoughts of destroying them in painful ways kept him occupied during the worst moments of those two days. In a way, it was his hatred that made the entire situation bearable.

It was still raining when they reached the prison. Killian hadn't expected to be taken all the way to the capital, so being taken to a different prison wasn't a surprise. What did surprise him was which prison he was taken to. It was a higher security prison with menacingly large stone walls. It sat on a cliff over the ocean and was visibly buffeted with huge waves that shrouded the dark stones in mist with each thundering collision of water against rock. Killian knew that cells went all the way down the cliff, with special trapdoors at the end of the hall that allowed the water to rush in and drain out with each swell of the ocean. The worst prisoners were kept lower down, where more water would rush in. At the bottom, the prisoners were often up to their waists in it at high tide.

The prison was notorious throughout the kingdom as one of the worst, but it was significant to Killian for more reasons than that. His grandmother had been kept here while awaiting her fate. The king had been reluctant to take her to the capital in case there were any surges of resistance; the prison was easy to defend. Here, his grandfather had met his grandmother and then carried her away. His mother had told him that Katie Crewe had chipped away at the wall of her cell with her fingernails until they broke and blood dripped down her fingers. _I die a Queen_, she had scratched painstakingly into the wall.

"Why would she _do_ that?" A five year-old Killian had demanded.

"To leave something solid behind," Christine said, stroking her son's hair with a gentle hand as he sat in her lap. "Memories are flighty things to leave behind; they fade from existence with those who carry them."

Her words had given Killian chills, and he'd had to turn around to burrow into his mother's front for comfort. He didn't like the thought of lives just disappearing, blown away like ashes on the wind, as though they had never existed in the first place.

"Is that why you write in your journal?" He'd asked, his voice muffled against the cinnamon-coloured cotton of his mother's dress. He didn't like imagining a time when the only thing that remained of his mother were a few books filled with writing.

She hummed in agreement. "But I'll be around for a long time yet."

Then she had rocked him, singing into his ear with her soft, dark curls falling loosely around them both:

_Oh can't you see yon little turtle dove_

_Sitting under the mulberry tree?_

_See how that she doth mourn for her true love:_

_And I shall mourn for thee, my dear,_

_And I shall mourn for thee._

_O fare thee well, my little turtle dove,_

_And fare thee well for a-while;_

_But though I go I'll surely come again,_

_If I go ten thousand mile, my dear,_

_If I go ten thousand mile.*_

The song was echoing through his head now in his mother's smooth, ringing voice. Odd, considering that he hadn't thought of it for years.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Your mom told you about her mom's time in prison?" Emma was unable to keep curiosity from bleeding into her voice. The little bits and pieces she'd heard about Katie Crewe fascinated her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You asked about my parents, Swan, not my grandparents." He pointed out drily. "Besides, I know very little: only what my grandfather told my mother, and who knows what she left out of her journals or the tales she told my brother and I. We were children after all." His voice had turned wistful.

Emma shot her companion a meaningful look that was completely useless in the dark. Still, she couldn't imagine hinting more obviously that she wanted to hear about it than she had already, which meant that Killian was purposefully ignoring her. She was surprised that he hadn't learned by now that it wouldn't work

"And?"

From his irritated huff, Emma knew that she had won. Smirking, she settled back to listen.

* * *

The Past - 1769

* * *

For a fifteen year-old, Kathryn knew that she had lived an accomplished life. She had accomplished more than many people did in a lifetime waging wars, gathering followers, raining vengeance down upon her enemies...

Perhaps she should have been bitter about her imminent death, but it had been expected, really. All she could feel was a numb detachment, as though she were moving through a dreamscape rather than reality. Maybe that was why her fingers didn't hurt so much from their abuse; well, that and the cold. Even though it was summer, the chill from the ocean was unshakeable. She would like to pretend that she didn't feel the cold, but she was used to the soft red sand of the deserts in the far east that continued to radiate heat even after the sun set.

She had little to no nails left on her hands, but she was almost finished, so it didn't really matter. All she had left was the "n" in her name that she painstakingly carved underneath her message. She would have written "Queen Kathryn" underneath, but she supposed that saying "queen" once was enough, and she didn't really have enough nails left to sacrifice to the wall.

Part of her hoped that leaving her words and her blood in these walls would be enough for her spirit to stay here. She would haunt the guards until they all drowned themselves, then drift over to her castle and drive the traitor who sat on her throne to madness until he killed himself too.

Oh, and that traitorous advisor who had the audacity to offer her freedom in exchange for a fuck.

"You're much younger than I expected."

The voice startled her; she had reached a point where she barely noticed the swelling of the water beneath her feet. Now the floor was damp rather than flooded: low tide. Guards only ever checked on her when they didn't have to get their feet wet.

Katie glanced up with a frown to see a familiar face. Even in the shadows of the damp dungeon, she could recognize it, simply because it was the face that had landed her here. She had only seen it from a distance, of course, since a captive - even an advantageous one - was not important enough for her to deal with personally.

She scowled at the wall, continuing to scratch at it in a determined effort to avoid looking at him. "Is there a reason for your visit, or are you just here to gloat?"

"Well, my family is now on the side of your enemies," the man said with a rueful smile. "So I'm on guard duty."

With eyes ablaze, she turned back to him. "They would entrust a bastard to watch _me_?"

To her irritation, he was now leaning against the bars with his arms hooked casually around them. He looked as comfortable as though he could be in his own home, rather than in a prison. "It's a gesture of goodwill. Besides, I volunteered."

"And they let you, because you're not as important as your father's _real_ children, but you're still somehow considered important enough to confirm your alliance." Her voice dripped with disdain. "You could have been ordered to 'volunteer', but I suspect that you're here for more than that. Revenge?"

"Curiosity," the man replied. His grey eyes raked her up and down. The image of the menageries that the Eastern lords had shown her popped into her head. She could still picture the tigers with their yellow eyes, restless and dangerous, pacing behind the bars.

She refused to be one of those tigers, so clearly trapped and angry. She was a queen, after all. Kathryn sauntered over to the bars herself and leaned against them. "And has your curiosity been sated, now that you've seen me?"

He shook his head, dark curls flopping across his face as he did so. Up close, she could see his face had laughter lines, although he didn't look old enough to have them.

"No. As I said, I expected you to be older." To Kathryn's surprise, there was no maliciousness behind his words.

She leaned closer. "I'm an old soul."

"How old _are _you?" He asked. His name was John, she recalled.

"Fifteen."

John let out a low whistle.

For a moment, Kathryn actually studied him. He had a large, beaky nose and small lips masked by a beard. Still, there was a certain charm to him, particularly from his mouth that looked as though it smiled more than it frowned. She would almost call him handsome, if she cared about such things.

"You don't look so old yourself, bastard," she observed.

"I'm twenty-four." He leaned towards her now, a stupid grin on his face. "But I'm an old soul."

Kathryn looped her own arms around the bars, manacles clanking against the metal.

"You're stalling. I can see the question on your face."

The man bit his lip, looking down as though gathering his thoughts. Kathryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If she had a limited amount of time left in this world, she hardly wanted to waste it waiting for the man in front of her to get up the courage to speak.

"Why did you kidnap me?" He asked finally.

"I miscalculated," Kathryn said coldly. "I assumed that your father would care enough about your life to not take the risk that he did. I would have preferred to kidnap one of his _real_ children, but you were more conveniently located."

Now, John raised his head, face blank. "But you didn't kill me."

"No."

"Why?"

Kathryn smiled, pressing her face against the bars. "Because I was going to torture and kill you in front of your family as soon as I captured them. It was a much better punishment than receiving your head. Of course, I wasn't expecting to be betrayed." Here, her smile gave way to something more feral. "When I get out of here, I'll make them suffer. I'll castrate them, leave them tied in the hot sand with water just out of their reach, then whip them, then cut off more bits of them until they beg for death. And only then will I burn them, one by one, piece by piece."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma couldn't resist interrupting. "Your mother told you _that_?"

Even though she hadn't met Henry until he was ten, she couldn't imagine telling her son that even at that age.

"No, Swan, of course not." Killian sounded affronted, and Emma couldn't help but wince. "It was in her journal. For all I know, she imagined it."

* * *

The Past

* * *

The shock on John's face almost made Kathryn laugh. The poor boy. He'd probably been pampered his entire life, even as a bastard. He'd been adopted, after all, and made more or less legitimate. Still, no one with a brain believed him to be anything else but the scum of the streets. That didn't mean he'd lived the life of the scum of the streets, though. He'd probably lived a life closer to what Kathryn should have lived.

After a moment, John's shock turned to curiosity once more. "You seem awfully certain that you _will _get out of here."

"I'm the legitimate queen. I have thousands of followers who would die for me without a second thought. And I have the people of my kingdom, who will rise up to save me, as they should." Kathryn sounded much more confident than she felt.

John shook his head in disbelief. "You've been burning the people of your kingdom. They're too scared of you to support you, nor do they particularly care who sits on the throne. And your armies have scattered or surrendered."

While she knew his words were true, Kathryn only raised a mocking eyebrow. She wondered if the man had a key on him. Perhaps she could pickpocket him.

Before she could try, though, John sighed and moved away to sit on the floor. He propped his head onto his hands. "You don't have many friends, do you?"

It was a strange observation. Kathryn was so surprised that she let out a laugh.

"Of course I don't have friends. I have loyal subjects."

John shook his head, brow furrowing. He had very dramatic eyebrows, thick and low so that they almost shaded his eyes. "Isn't that kind of lonely?"

Once again, Kathryn was baffled by the man in front of her. She'd never been spoken to in such a frank way, not even by her most trusted advisors. It showed the man's lack of breeding, to be sure. She knew that the north was an odd place, full of rough men who picked their livings out of mountain rocks, but she had expected the ruling lord's son to have more manners and common sense. Perhaps he hadn't been raised as a full son of the lord after all.

As a result, she pitied him, and decided to actually respond to the question. "I'm a queen," she explained, speaking slowly to adjust to his level of intelligence. "I'm not meant to have friends and be happy. I'm meant to rule."

"In that case, I wouldn't want to be king," John said confidently.

Kathryn scoffed. "Of course not. It's hardly your place to think about such things or even hope to understand. You couldn't rule an ant colony, never mind a kingdom."

After a moment, John shook his head again. Then he turned to her, grey eyes intense. "I'm sorry."

Yet again, Kathryn found herself thrown off guard. "For what, bastard?"

"You must have had a terrible life to be such a terrible person."

The words stung. It was odd for the words of someone so inferior to herself to actually hurt her, but somehow they did. No one had ever said that to her before, and she felt the ridiculous urge to defend herself.

"Does pursuing justice make me a terrible person? I watched my brothers and sisters cut down in front of me. I heard the dying screams of my mother, begging the murderers to spare us. I had to pretend that I was dead. I had to lie on the floor, an eight year-old child, feeling the hot blood of my family oozing into my clothing and staining my skin. I had to bite back screams and trembling and stay absolutely still while my family died, knowing that I would die too if I tried to help. Do you know how old my youngest sister was? Four months."

She paused for breath, fists clenched against the bars. "Then I was hunted down from the moment I left the city, only escaping because of a loyal guard who was then shot down within the year by an assassin intending to kill me. Then, at eight years old, I had to prove to countless lords and ladies that I was worth supporting. I had to raise armies and lead them before I was even a woman."

By now her voice had dropped to a furious whisper. "You think I burned people for nothing? I burned them because they deserved it. I burned them because they stood in my way. I would burn this entire kingdom if it meant that I could kill those who killed my family. I've worked too hard to regain my birthright, and I'll be _damned_ if I let anyone take it from me."

Her eyes were so blinded by tears that she didn't see John stand and move towards her. She only realized he had moved when he had grabbed her hand. His hand was rough, but it was warm against her freezing fingers.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his own voice thick with emotion. He swallowed audibly, then continued. "I'm not saying that what happened to you was right, because it wasn't. But if I were your family, I wouldn't want you to throw your life away on something stupid like revenge or a birthright. I would want you to live."

Kathryn shook her head. "What do you know? You're not my family. You're just a bastard."

"I know people," John shrugged. "And I know what it's like to be bitter. And I know that things hurt a lot less if you move on."

"And how am I supposed to move on?" She snapped. "I'm waiting to be executed. My life is over."

John hesitated, eyes lost in some thought. "It doesn't have to be."

To her surprise, Kathryn found her heart pounding at his words. It was foolish to trust this stupid boy, but she somehow found herself filling with something light that she hadn't felt for a long time: hope. Maybe desperation was the cause, but she found that she couldn't push it away.

"You would trust me not to stab you in the back? You would trust me to keep my word and not just kidnap you again?" She asked incredulously.

John shrugged. "You might stab me in the back. But I think it's about time that I returned the favour of getting a second chance."

Perhaps for the first time in her life, Kathryn was humbled. There was clearly more to this man's story than met the eye, and she was suddenly curious about what it was.

"You'd seriously risk your life - and your family's - for me?"

John rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Well, not entirely. I'm not actually on guard duty. My family has ended the alliance because King Clayton is asking for way too much. They're already on their way home; the negotiations have failed. The original deal was simple: save me and get you. A longer term thing isn't in the cards, it seems."

A habit of suspicion was hard to break, and Kathryn felt old instincts kicking in. She became aware once again of John's hand covering hers, and finally pulled hers away. "And you'd double-cross them?"

He shrugged. "Well, they're not very nice."

Kathryn shook her head. "You seriously broke in here just to see if I was worth saving?"

"It was worth it just to see if I could break into the kingdom's most secure prison. It was a fun challenge."

Without a doubt, John was mad. In this case, his madness was beneficial. Kathryn could think about this whole idea of a second chance, or she could kill him and be on her way. The lovely thing was that she could save that decision for later. Either way, she was going to live.

John extracted a key from his belt and paused. "There is one condition for this, though."

Kathryn rolled her eyes. Of course there was. "What?"

"Stop calling me bastard. We're friends now. That means we're on first name terms, Katie."

"That is _not _my name, _John_." She said his name like a disease, but John looked pleased nonetheless.

Once again, he smiled what Kathryn had now dubbed his shit-eating grin. "It is now."

Maybe she would have to kill him after all.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Here, Killian paused. The silence stretched on until Emma began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. She glanced over at his silhouette only to find that he was sitting up now, completely still but certainly awake from the way he held his head.

"What?" Emma whispered.

He glanced at her, and she could see the stars reflected in his pupils.

"I've often found it to be an interesting turn of fate that my grandmother found redemption within that prison, while I..."

He began to fiddle with his hook, clearly embarrassed.

"Found the opposite?" Emma finished softly.

* * *

The Past - 1829

* * *

Killian had always considered the ocean to be a friend. He had ridden the waves into adventure, been lulled into sleep by the lapping of water against the hull of the ship, and thrown his enemies into the water to be swallowed and vanquished.

In the lowest level of the prison, he realized what a fickle friend the ocean could be. At high tide, he was thrown repeatedly against the bars of his cell and the harsh stone walls. The cell was too small to stand in, which meant that he barely had room to breathe and risked getting his face smashed in whenever he did.

The cries of the other prisoners would fill the hall with a gruesome chorus that eventually faded into a frightening silence. It took two days for the first man on the floor to give up and drown. Killian had watched them carry his body past his cell to throw out the chute into the ocean; apparently it served more purposes than making their stay uncomfortable.

Killian had expected torture, but this was a new, unfamiliar form of it. He was used to beatings and starvation; he almost wondered if that would be more bearable. At least he occasionally received water and food now, although not nearly enough. He became used to gritty salt stuck in his hair, his clothes, his eyelashes, his skin. He slept when he could at low tide, but it never seemed to last long enough, and he feared missing his daily delivery of water and food. Sleep was especially difficult in the cold.

He began to regret not killing himself when he had the chance, Milah be damned, and the thought constantly echoed through his mind. It would be so easy to just stop fighting the waves and let himself drown. Clearly, no one was coming for him, anyway. He lost track of the days he spent in that hell, each one blending into the next with the same darkness and repetitive deafening, crashing waves.

Soon, he began to hallucinate. His mother appeared to him the most. She would reach out to touch him, but then she would disappear. Most often, he watched her die. Sometimes she blamed him for her death and everyone else's. He wouldn't be able to tell whether the salt water running down his face was from the waves or his eyes. Lyanna would scream for help, Uncle Connor would call him weak, Lord Alasdair would goad him. His past haunted him awake and asleep.

As a result, when someone came to visit him, he thought she was a figment of his imagination.

"Killian. I thought I told you that I never wanted to see your face again."

The pirate squinted as the woman raised her lantern. It took a while for his eyes, so used to the dark by now, to adjust to the harsh light and see the woman in front of him. She was small with a boyish figure, dull brown hair twisted into an intricate bun, and cold, dark eyes. Her dress was far too nice for a prison, made up of layers and layers of purple silk and lace. Her rather large nose was wrinkled in disgust, whether at him or the conditions of the prison, Killian wasn't sure.

"Giselle," he said, his voice coming out in a rasp. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her mousey face twisted into its usual expression of dislike that she wore around him. "I'm supposed to confirm that it's really you and not some other filthy pirate. I assure you, it's no pleasure to be here."

Again, she wrinkled her nose. She lifted a dainty foot from the floor to look at her delicate purple slippers, now stained brown and soaked through.

"And will you tell them that it's really me?" Killian found that he didn't really care, either way.

"Of course," she sniffed. "I already saved you once. It's your own fault if you can't manage to keep out of trouble." Giselle raked him with her gaze, looking down her considerably sized nose. "God, you look disgusting."

Killian didn't doubt it. His clothes were torn and so was his skin. He could feel it stinging from the salt. Losing weight was inevitable with what he was eating, and his hair was matted. Even his shoes were gone.

With that observation, Giselle turned to leave, pulling out a handkerchief to hold against her nose.

With considerable effort and clanking, Killian moved forward enough to place his gaunt face against the bars. "Lord Alasdair's position suits you well. I imagine that he would be quite proud of you for carrying on his work."

Giselle stopped, her entire body tensing. It was a low blow considering his role in Liam's death, Killian knew, but one he couldn't resist or regret.

In a movement that was entirely too controlled, she turned back to Killian. Her face looked positively demonic in the glow from the lantern.

"Goading me won't entice me to free you."

"Power is a disease, isn't it? I remember you telling Liam about all that you would achieve once you were the king's advisor." Killian was acutely aware of the way Giselle stiffened at his name. "Even in other kingdoms I've heard about you. You're corrupt, they say. You use everything for your own benefit. You bask in power the way a dragon basks in gold, killing anyone who gets in your way. Just as you had me kill Lord Alasdair so that you could take his position. Are you plotting to marry the king, now? It wouldn't surprise me."

Giselle approached him slowly, almost in a predatory manner. Power did suit her; he imagined that she would look far less confident if the bars between them were to disappear.

A hot, powerful hatred surged through him. "Tell me, were you actually pregnant? I don't recall hearing any happy announcement. I suppose that if you were, you would have murdered the child as soon as it was out of your womb."

At this, Giselle finally snapped. She lowered her head until her face was only an inch or so away from Killian's, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of retreating. He didn't even flinch when she spat at him, nor move to wipe it off of his face.

Instead, Killian lunged, wrapping his hands around her neck. Giselle let out a gasp of surprise that Killian cut off with his hands, watching coldly as her eyes stared frantically into his, pleading. She clawed at his hands to no avail, slowly weakening from her lack of breath.

His voice came out in a growl. "So you did kill him."

He released the pressure on her neck just enough to let her answer.

"Her," Giselle whispered between small coughs.

"How did you do it?" Killian snarled. "Did you kill her before she was even born, Giselle? Did you flush her out before she could even draw breath? Or did you smother her in her early living moments? If so, this is poetic justice." He squeezed her neck a bit more tightly, reveling in the way her frantic pulse beat against his hands. Then, once again, he released her slightly to let her speak.

Her eyes were wet now. "No. I... hid my... pregnancy. And... gave her... away."

The news made Killian's heart stop. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Liam had a child, if Giselle could be believed. "To who?" Killian demanded.

"A family... in the... city. Went to... school with Lydia... her husband... lawyer." She was crying in earnest now.

"A last name, Giselle. Or an address."

"Over... my dead... body."

He moved his hands to her shoulders and slammed her head against the bars.

She whimpered, before gasping, "Adler."

Then Killian let her go, watching without sympathy as she collapsed to the floor gasping. A few droplets of blood were trickling down her pale, blue-tinged face. As soon as she had the breath, she started screaming for guards. Her dress was now stained a muddy brown, the silk ruined. _Who looks awful, now? _Killian thought vindictively. The sound of pounding footsteps echoed down the hall.

After a moment, Killian laughed. Giselle scurried away in surprise, staring as Killian moved his hands away from the bars to clutch his stomach, shaking with mirth.

"For someone who prides herself on manipulating others, you're pathetically easy to manipulate." He choked out.

Before Giselle could even process his words, two guards had arrived. One reached for Giselle, helping to her feet, while the other approached the cell menacingly.

"He tried to kill me," Giselle sobbed, face buried in her hands.

"A bit stupid of you to let her down here alone." Killian observed, smirking. "Although, I suppose you didn't imagine that someone as cunning as her would be stupid enough to come close to a criminal, did you?"

"That's enough," the guard who wasn't helping Giselle snarled. His face was purple with fury. The other one was younger and pale, stunned rather than angry. Killian could have crowed in triumph; he couldn't have asked for better guards if he'd tried.

Killian moved towards the bars deliberately, still smiling. "I'm surprised that you don't have more casualties here, mate. How on earth have you kept this job? Or are you new?"

The man reached for his belt, undoing it slowly, menacingly. He slipped the keys off first, but continued to slide the belt out all the way.

"I hope you don't lose your trousers. That would be quite a sight for the lady," Killian mocked.

"Stop!" Giselle snapped, voice breathy but still authoritative. "He's up to something!"

The guard ignored her - blind to everything but his own hotheadedness - and unlocked the door, raising his belt.

Adrenaline flooded Killian, and he rolled out of the way so that the belt only clipped his shoulder. He jumped to his feet and lunged at the guard, sending him careening to the floor, keys clattering beside him. The brute was taken by surprise, which meant it took him a moment to react. When he did, it was with flailing fists and a flailing belt. Killian barely felt them as he lunged at the guard again, keys in hand, and began stabbing down at the man's beefy neck. He didn't stop until the man stilled beneath him.

He turned to find the other guard standing between him and Giselle, his sword held between them.

"Put it down, lad," Killian panted, hand still holding the keys with a death-grip. "If you leave now, I give you my word that I won't hurt you. On my honour."

"Pirates don't have any honour," the boy declared, swinging the sword at Killian.

He dodged easily and tripped the boy, the sword clattering down the hall. Killian went after the sword, only to be grabbed by Giselle, finally spurred into action. He elbowed her hard in the stomach until she let go. Once he had a weapon in hand, he paused to catch his breath, taking in the sight of the guard fleeing down the hall. Only Giselle remained, face white with terror.

The other prisoners were screaming, yelling at Killian to give them the keys. He ignored them, staring at Giselle.

"He's going for more guards. Even if you kill me, you'll die," Giselle pointed out.

Killian pretended to consider, leaning against the wall in what he hoped appeared casual rather than pained. In reality, he was exhausted. "I spared your life before. It's not my fault if you can't stay out of trouble."

He slowly pressed the sword through her neck, watching as the life left her eyes with grim satisfaction.

Unfortunately, he only had moments to savour his victory. He could hear more soldiers coming, which meant he had to move. He ran down the hall, ignoring the hands now reaching out between bars of various cells, begging for their own freedom.

Killian considered, then tossed the keys towards one of them. He didn't care whether other prisoners were saved, but at least they could distract the guards.

Finally, he reached the chute that let the water in and let the dead prisoners out. He pushed it open cautiously, looking down at the angry ocean below. It was a risky plan that could very well result in being smashed against the rocks.

He had very little to regret leaving, if he died. In prison, he'd had a lot of time to think about death, since his had seemed imminent. Most everyone he loved had died or betrayed him. Even Owen, his only friend, could be a traitor. Death would mean little to him. Only three regrets would haunt him, if he were to die: leaving Milah behind, never meeting his niece, and never being a father.

Better to die there than here, though, he decided. He would die for certain, if he was too afraid to jump. Slim odds were better than none at all.

Killian knelt down to fit through the hole and dropped into the turbulent waves.

* * *

*English Trad., "The Little Turtle Dove"


	41. Chapter 40

Never trust me when I say I'll have something done by a certain date. I tried, I promise. Then I didn't get it done, felt very sad about not getting it done, felt too sad to get it done, and then life got crazy. However, in saying that... I'm going to Europe for three weeks starting February 4, so I'm really hoping to be done by then!

Comments, favourites, and reads are all appreciated. Thank you to everyone who continues to read this and/or comment. It's tough to continue with such a mega-huge project, but your encouragement really helps. I know I haven't responded to comments for months, but I will as soon as I'm finished this last chapter. I read and appreciate them all.

Happy New Year... I hope you enjoy! As always, thanks to Trish Tavor, my beta who makes everything wonderful and turns my ideas into something decent. I always want to gush about her here, but I don't have the words to fully communicate how amazing she is!

I split the last chapter into two. I'm really hoping that I can finish this in one more chapter. I'm afraid that everything always turns out longer than I expect it to, though, so it may be two...

Thanks again!

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Spit it out, Swan."

Emma glanced behind her at the pirate with their kidnap victim easily slung over his left shoulder.

"Do you want me to carry her for a while?"

From the look Killian gave her, Emma could tell that her avoidance tactic had failed.

"You could at least switch shoulders," she added quickly, hoping it would add legitimacy to her question. In truth, while she did feel a bit bad that Killian had been carrying her for almost an hour already, he seemed remarkably untroubled by the added weight of the unconscious woman. When he'd first picked her up, Emma had protested feebly, but Killian had simply said that he was used to navigating the forest, while she would probably hit the woman into every tree and branch. She could barely keep herself from tripping and crashing into them, he had pointed out with a smirk. As tempting as it was to argue, Emma could see his point. At her hesitation, Killian had added that he was used to carrying heavy things. He had been very confused by Emma's snicker; younger Killian's drunken exclamation of "I've carried rum barrels heavier than you" was still on her mind.

It was a bit of a bad subject change, but she figured that you couldn't blame her for trying.

"Not if I want to be able to defend us if we come across any trouble," Killian said, gesturing at his sword pointedly.

_Oh, right_, Emma thought somewhat sheepishly. Killian was holding the woman in place with his wooden hand rather than his hook, and a wooden hand would be useless when it came to grabbing a sword. It was something Emma wouldn't have thought of, had their situations been reversed. Then again, as a pirate from fairytale land, he was probably used to needing easy access to a weapon.

Considering that he was Captain _Hook_, it was remarkably easy for her to forget that Killian only had one hand; he functioned so well. Things seemed easier between them today, Emma realized. Yesterday, she would have been nervous at the faux pas she had just made. She'd never really gotten the sense that Killian was overly sensitive about his missing hand, particularly based on how he joked about it, but she'd been tiptoeing a bit around him ever since her latest major mess-up. It had felt as though their relationship - whatever it was - was on fragile ground.

Today, things weren't back to normal, exactly, but they were closer. Killian had insisted they get some rest after he recounted his escape from prison, but Emma hadn't gotten the sense that it was because he regretted opening up to her again. In the morning, her hunch was confirmed by the celtic-sounding tune he was softly singing under his breath and the smile he shot her when he saw that she was awake. Then, he had teased her about having a hidden pirate-y side when she knocked out the mystery prisoner she had saved. That light-hearted teasing was something she'd missed.

The biggest sign that things were easier between them, though, was what Killian had said as they watched Emma's parents. He'd said that having difficulty accepting romantic feelings ran in her family.

True, he hadn't mentioned the idea of New York that hung between them like an almost physical barrier, but he had mentioned - yet again - the possibility of something happening between them. He had more or less called her out on the fact that she felt something for him, but that had been it; he hadn't pushed her. It had simply been a statement, and one that Emma hadn't been able to refute.

The thought made something in Emma's chest flutter.

Of course, she had completely ignored the statement at the time, shoving away uncomfortable feelings as she tended to do. If she hadn't, Emma would've had to deny having romantic feelings for him, or worse, admit that he was right. That would mean that she actually had to do something about it. For once, though, she'd actually been tempted to. Killian had seen her at a moment of weakness - in tears over her parents falling in love - that would normally make her embarrassed to death. True, she'd been embarrassed at first, but Killian had quickly assured her that it was fine, allowing her to be vulnerable without judgment. He'd even understood why she was crying without her having to say a word. She'd never been understood like that before or felt quite so safe being vulnerable.

She'd always cared for him on some level, but she'd never wanted to delve into it. Now, though, she was having more and more trouble ignoring whatever feelings she had for him. Killian had proven time and time again that he would do anything for her. He supported and understood her like no one else ever had, and his acceptance of her seemed to be unconditional. This trip to the past had only shoved it all into her face.

In spite of this, she stood by her decision to shove away whatever she felt. Now wasn't a good time to worry about it. They were still stuck in the past, which meant that she should leave difficult thoughts and decisions for after this particular problem was solved. Forcibly, she dragged her mind back to the present.

Emma bit her lip, deciding that she might as well risk asking what had been on her mind ever since the night before.

"You said that one of your three regrets if you died was that you would never be a father. Did you ever have..." She trailed off, then blurted, "Why didn't you and Milah ever have kids?"

After a moment, she allowed herself to glance behind her. Killian's face was carefully blank, which only filled her with more curiosity. She'd guessed that this might be a bit of a sore point for him, and it seemed that she was right.

He swallowed hard. "Ever since Ciarra passed away... well, I suppose I'd toyed with the idea of being a father even with Lyanna, when I thought of taking her away from her parents. But Ciarra's pregnancy gave me a taste of what could have been."

Emma nodded. That was easy for her to relate to; she had tried her best to avoid thinking about the "could have beens" after she gave Henry away. She'd been largely successful, but she'd still thought about him more than once. However, this past year in New York had given her a taste of what her life would have been like if she'd made a different choice, and it was painful to know that her entire "reality" had been a lie. Even before, when she first met Henry, the possibilities of the life they could have had together had hurt.

Nevertheless, she'd accepted during her pregnancy that, logistically, she couldn't be a mother. She was in prison, didn't have her life together, and... well, she knew nothing about being a good parent. But if she _had_ been ready, and it was something that she had wanted, would giving up Henry have been even worse? She wasn't sure.

"Even if I wanted it, though," Killian continued, keeping his voice carefully lighthearted, "a pirate ship is hardly a good environment for a child. I was willing to give up that life in an instant if we had one, of course, or even if we went back for Milah's boy. But, as there were two of us in the relationship..."

Emma nodded, the pieces falling together. "Milah didn't want a child."

"No. It turned out that her first bout with motherhood was enough to make her certain that she never wanted another go at it."

She paused so that Killian was forced to walk beside her instead of behind. There was no bitterness on his face that she could detect, but rather just a quiet sadness... and something almost haunted.

Something didn't seem right. Her lie detector was going haywire. It wasn't about the words themselves, but something else. She had a feeling that he was lying not by what he did say, but what he didn't say, which made her all the more determined to pry. "So you never had a kid?"

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. "No, Swan. I don't have scores of children hiding around the Enchanted Forest, if that's what you're asking. I have to say that the idea dropped far down my list of priorities after Milah's death."

For a moment, Emma felt incredibly dense. Based on how single-mindedly he had focused on avenging Milah, it now seemed rather stupid to imagine him running off and having a child. Still...

"From your stories, I don't get the idea that contraception was great in the Enchanted Forest, though."

"Contraception?" Killian's brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed. "Ah. I suppose you mean preventing conception."*

The fact that the word was unfamiliar to him only confirmed Emma's suspicions.

"So, you could technically have a kid floating around somewhere, couldn't you?" While she had never really discussed Killian's sex life, "keeping him busy" a few nights ago had only confirmed that it was likely quite active.

"No," Killian said. "By the time I... indulged any carnal desires I may have had after Milah's death, enchanted items for... contraception," he explored the new word with a delight that amused Emma, "had become quite common. You know, necklaces, talismans, potions, that sort of thing. Magic was more of a myth than a reality when I was young. It took some time for belief in sorcery to become widespread."

"Was Milah ahead of her time, then?" Emma asked.

To her surprise, Killian winced. "No, not exactly."

He stopped to readjust the woman on his shoulder. It caused him to fall behind and avoid Emma's eyes, which told her that she was definitely on the right track.

"Then how did you manage to not have kids?" Emma prompted. She would have guessed that Killian was embarrassed because he was infertile or something, but considering that he'd already knocked up one woman, that seemed unlikely.

"I suppose," he began hesitantly, "I should clarify that Milah never _told_ me that she didn't want anymore children... at first, anyway."

Emma was intrigued.

"How did you find out, then?"

Killian was silent for a moment. Emma could almost see the memories flitting across his eyes. "She took matters into her own hands."

"How?"

* * *

The Past - 1824

* * *

The door to the captain's cabin opened with a quiet, drawn-out creak.

Familiar scents filled Killian's nose: the soft floral scent of Milah, the sharp spicy scent of rum, and, underneath it all, blood.

Milah's lips were pale enough that they were almost indistinguishable from her wan, translucent skin. She was as white as the moon shining through the window over her head, so white that Killian briefly wondered if she had died after all and he was only looking at her ghost. Dark circles ringed her eyes as she leaned against a mound of pillows. As the door opened, she glanced up with equally pale eyes. Killian usually adored those eyes. They reminded him of the silvery colour of the ocean on a cloudy day or mist hanging over the city where he'd grown up. Today, they made him shudder; he saw only the silver of ghosts staring at him.

At first, Killian couldn't bring himself to move. He knew he should be running to Milah's side, but a cold fist had taken hold of his heart and seemed to have frozen his feet as well.

Their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze as they stared at each other, each reluctant to start the conversation that was inevitable.

"I suppose you're angry with me," Milah said, breaking her eyes away to look at her hands.

Killian's forced his feet to move out of the shadows, face still expressionless.

"No, I'm not angry."

Milah looked up sharply, surprise vivid in her eyes despite her obvious exhaustion. "You're not-"

"I'm furious."

His words were so cold and clipped that he barely recognized his own voice. It was as though someone else were having the conversation, and he was just floating through the room and watching. The lack of control he felt would have been frightening if he could feel anything besides dull rage. As it was, he could only observe with a detached calmness.

Wincing, Milah hurried to speak. "Killian, I know I should have told you that I was pregnant, and I definitely should have told you that I didn't want any more children, but-"

"But you thought that sticking a knitting needle up your-" he gestured vaguely in her direction "-would be a better decision?"

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma felt her stomach drop to her toes at the thought. "You're not serious."

No wonder Killian hadn't wanted to bring it up, Emma thought with some guilt.

He nodded grimly.

"Did she even knit?"

She felt stupid as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Of all the things she could have said, she had to ask if Milah knew how to _knit__._

She_ was_ curious, even if the timing was horrible. Somehow, Emma had difficulty imagining Milah, the free-spirited lover of a pirate captain, doing something as domestic as sitting down and knitting. Besides, if she _had _knit anything, Emma was fairly certain that Killian would have kept it, and she hadn't seen anything that looked knit (not unless she had knitting needles the width of sewing needles, anyway, which Emma imagined would not suit the purposes of a self-administered abortion).

"She used to before, when she was still attempting to be domestic. She was bloody awful at it."

Emma felt less stupid when Killian huffed a small laugh at the thought.

"So..."

He sobered immediately. "She bought knitting needles at some port, thinking she might try to be domestic again. They sat forgotten in a drawer for months. She never did use them for knitting. "

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian's hands were clenched almost painfully.

"Not in hindsight," she admitted, turning her head so that her face pointed towards the ceiling. "But I wasn't thinking straight."

"Aye, Milah, that much is obvious," he bit out, angrily pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting down.

When Milah refused to meet his eyes or react at all, Killian found himself dropping his head in his hands. Various thoughts were going through his head at the speed of lightning, combining with everything else to make him quite nauseous.

"Was having my child really so repulsive to you?"

He spoke into his hands, which was just as well. The question made him feel horribly exposed, and Killian didn't want her to see him like that. The words themselves made him weak enough. This was the second child he had lost, the second time that he could have been a father.

Once again, he found his mind wandering to his old dreams of fatherhood. He could picture his child. She still looked a bit like Lyanna, but this time she had Milah's dark curls. He could see himself rocking her, carrying her on his shoulders, reading to her, watching her fall asleep, and countless other things that sounded so little, but felt so huge. Despair filled him once again as he realized what he'd lost.

"You know how I feel about being a mother. It had nothing to do with who the father was," she said, voice flat.

The despair was quickly replaced by anger.

"Did you ever consider," Killian said in a dangerous, low voice, "that the child had more than one parent? And that I might have felt differently?"

"Once you saw how terrible of a mother I was to our child, you wouldn't have loved me anymore." For the first time, Milah's voice broke. "I couldn't let that happen."

Rather than invoking pity, Milah's words had the opposite effect. For the first time, Killian saw something that he wished he hadn't seen; Milah was selfish. He had always known that she wasn't perfect, but had accepted without question that she was perfect for him. The realization that she had no faith in him and no regard for his own feelings in such an important matter jarred him.

Milah continued to stare at the ceiling, eyes glassy. "Are you going to leave me?" She whispered.

With a sigh, Killian closed his eyes. God, the scent of blood had been subtle at first, but it now seemed overpowering. He wasn't sure if it was because he was closer to Milah or simply because his mind was focusing on it, but he could barely think through the heavy odour. For a moment, he thought that he might actually be sick.

Thinking back, Killian had always wondered at how different his life would have been if he'd left her. Would he have run into Rumplestiltskin at all? Would he have died instead of Milah, if he had run into him? Would he have found another woman and grown old with her and their children in a distant land? Would they have all died at the hands of the king's assassins? He would always have more questions than answers.

His younger self knew none of this, of course. He hadn't even known how pivotal of a moment this might have been, had he chosen differently.

Instead, he felt each wave of anger course through him, eyes fixed on the woman he loved. She looked pitiful lying there, defeated and desperate, perhaps as vulnerable as it was possible to be. At that moment, Killian hated her. He hated the way that she was able to invoke pity in him even when she didn't deserve it. He hated the way that she was able to turn wronging him into something about her. Most of all, he hated that he loved her.

Killian had done everything that it was possible to do for her. He had saved her from a life that was destroying her. He had gone out of his way to make her happy. He'd sent her husband away, killed for her, showered her with gifts, and loved her with every part of himself. She had thrown it all in his face because she was a coward, just like the husband she had despised. Milah was a coward. She would rather go behind his back and destroy something that she _knew_ Killian had always wanted, just for her own selfish purposes. She knew that he trusted very few people and loved even less. Even though she knew this, Milah had betrayed him. It hurt all the more because she knew him so well. She had known exactly what she would do to him if he found out; she knew how badly he'd wanted a child. She had also risked her own life, all the while knowing that Killian had lost _everyone_. She was one of two people he had left, and she had risked her life on a selfish whim. She had betrayed him in every way, thrown his trust into his face, and, worst of all, was completely unapologetic. Perhaps she felt some regret for what this might mean for her, but did she regret it for the sake of Killian? Yesterday, he would have answered that of course she would regret hurting him. Today, he wasn't sure.

"I don't know," he answered finally, voice tight.

Milah pressed her lips together and nodded once. She was too proud to cry, but her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

The sight made Killian feel even worse. He shouldn't care if she was upset, but he loved her. It was unfortunate, but it was true. Did she deserve his love? Probably not. Clearly, he had a lot of thinking to do.

He stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair sounding thunderous in the quiet room. "However, it would be bad form for me to throw you off of my ship while you're ill, so you can stay for now."

"Killian..." Milah whispered, imploring.

He ignored her and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

The _Jolly Roger_ was eerily quiet. The entire crew obviously knew what had happened, and were sensibly making themselves scarce by hiding in their quarters or in whatever taverns were in this ridiculous town. The only person on deck was Owen, who hastily scrambled to his feet at the sight of his friend and captain.

"Mallory. Watch the ship."

Owen's eyes widened. "You're going somewhere? How's Milah faring?"

Killian shot him a glare. "That was an order, not an invitation for discourse."

"Where are you going?" Owen persisted, hurrying alongside him. "I'm sorry about what happened, Killian-"

He abruptly broke off as Killian grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragging his face forward until it was inches away from his own.

"I said," he growled, "watch the ship."

The unfortunate pirate almost fell to the deck as Killian shoved him away, continuing to stalk down the gangplank.

He had expected that getting off of the ship would provide him with some much needed space to think. Rather than feeling his thoughts slow into something comprehensible, they only seemed to speed up and run together.

Someone crashed into him, and he was suddenly thrown back to what felt like a different lifetime, when a certain old, lavender-scented man always managed to walk right into him. His temper flared once again.

"I apologize," the man said dismissively, moving to continue on his way.

That was a mistake. Killian grabbed his arm and landed a fist square in his face. Adrenaline rushed through him, leaving his mind blissfully focused on the unfortunate man who was now at his feet.

"I suggest," he snarled, kicking him when he tried to get up, "that you learn to watch where you're going."

"I'm sorry," the man blubbered, attempting to scamper away.

Killian followed him easily, punching him a few more times for good measure. When he was finished with the unfortunate man, he was breathing heavily. He glanced at his knuckles; they were bloody and scraped. And his mind was blissfully clear.

Without another word or even a backward glance, he stalked towards the nearest tavern. He hoped the man had friends who he would enlist to try to beat him up. After the first fight, Killian was itching for another. In the meantime, he ordered some rum. When he tired of it, he goaded some drunken idiots into a fight. He ended up with a bruised cheekbone and jaw, but it provided him with the distraction he craved. More than that, it provided him with some affirmation; he wasn't just a fool to be taken advantage of, but a pirate captain who was more than capable of leaving destruction in his wake.

By the time the moon was beginning to set and a line of orange had appeared on the horizon, Killian was on the deck of his beloved ship, a bottle of rum held loosely in his hands. His head was leaned back against the rail, and the cool sea breeze was rushing softly over his face. Some seagulls were crying in the distance.

Killian was exhausted. He felt hundreds of years old, not twenty-four.

He had finally come to a decision, and it had taken much less time than he'd anticipated.

He had wanted a child more than anything, once. In a way, he still did. But he wanted Milah more.

Over his life, he had lost almost everyone. There were only two living people he cared for in the world, and one of them had almost died. He was angry about the loss of his child, certainly, but Killian realized something important that night. He realized that he was angriest over almost losing Milah. She almost became another name on the huge list of people he'd lost, each death hitting him harder and harder than the one before.

The difference was that she hadn't died.

God, what he would have given to have any of the people he had lost survive. He would have sold his soul for a second chance with them. He had one now with Milah, and he had come close to throwing it away. It was true that what she had done had disillusioned him, but he could see why she acted the way that she had. After all, he was all that she had too.

It would be difficult, but they had a chance to try again. And Killian knew without a doubt that he had to take it.

He went back to his quarters eventually. The pale sun was shining through the window onto Milah's face, illuminating raw cheeks and puffy eyes.

Killian brushed his lips against her forehead, then resettled himself in a chair by her side to wait for her to wake up.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian's voice stopped, making the snapping of twigs and their footfalls suddenly distractingly loud.

"And?" Emma prompted.

"That's it for that tale."

A lie, of course. Emma imagined that the tale of them rebuilding trust was a long one. However, Killian had already let her into a story that was private even compared to the other stories of his past. Perhaps, Emma decided, it was only fair for some private moments to stay that way.

"So, what happened after you escaped from prison? You kinda left me at another cliffhanger." She was certain that her topic change was far from seamless, but Killian seemed to appreciate it nonetheless.

"You know that I lived, so it's hardly a true 'cliffhanger'," Killian reminded her.

Emma rolled her eyes. "But I don't know what happened."

* * *

The Past - 1827

* * *

As bad as the waves had been from his cell, they were even worse outside of it. He hit the water with what felt like the force of a cannon, only to be thrown by the raging sea before he could even recover his breath. The waves dragged him forwards, backwards, and under as though he were as light and flimsy as a feather. For a few minutes, Killian was certain that he would drown or be dashed into pieces upon the rocks that he grew closer to with every swell of the ocean. It wouldn't be a terrible death, dying at sea. In fact, it was quite fitting for a pirate captain.

That didn't mean that Killian wouldn't rather live.

Keeping above the waves was exhausting, so Killian dove under and swam towards the open sea, knowing that the waves would be less strong once he got away from where they were breaking; hopefully, once he was no longer in danger of being slammed into a cliff, he would be able to find a suitable place to go ashore. Being under the waves was still a struggle, but at least he could make some progress away from the cliff.

Killian wasn't sure how long he fought the waves. He covered any distance excruciatingly slowly. By the time he made it to an actual beach, he felt tired enough to consider just laying there and dying after all.

Only the knowledge that soldiers would be looking for him sent him staggering to his feet.

The evening and night were spent in small, painful steps. Killian was shivering, feeling the nip of the fall air through his thin, wet clothes. He wasn't wearing enough to be warm even if he hadn't gone for a swim in the ocean. His bare feet were coldest, but it may have been a good thing that his feet were numb. At least he didn't have to feel the various cuts and aches from the rocky, uneven ground.

By the time he reached a coastal village, his feet were both bloody messes. A few of the gashes littering his body likely needed stitches, and he definitely needed the warmth of a fire. The only problem was that he most certainly looked like an escaped convict, and the likelihood of being arrested was high. One thing was plain: he needed to get to his ship.

Killian approached the village cautiously, keeping to the shadows. Once he was close enough, his suspicions were proven correct; soldiers seemed to be everywhere. If Killian had a sword, he may have stood a chance, at least if he could sneak up behind them and kill them quietly one by one. As it was, he wasn't certain he could take that risk.

Where would his ship be? It depended on if Owen was working for Jacques. If so, he was sure the ship was far away. If not, there was at least a possibility that his ship would be close to the prison. Even so, there was only half a chance that he was going in the right direction. He could ask around nearby ports if there had been any sightings, but wasn't that where he was expected to go? Soldiers would surely be there too.

Despair flooded Killian's heart for only a moment.

The only thing left to do was the unexpected. At any rate, it would be unexpected to most everyone except, perhaps, Giselle and Lord Alasdair, and they were both dead. Everyone else would never expect it; it was too obvious, too stupid.

Of course, he may die of hypothermia on the way, but it would be worth it.

Jacques had a mother in this land, Jacques had told him. She had moved from her own country when a civil war had broken out, and she now lived on a farm further inland. It was likely that Jacques would be there and, if he wasn't, his mother's death would be punishment enough.

Killian turned away from the village and began his journey.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Oh."

Killian glanced at Emma, whose brows were furrowed in thought. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

"I was expecting you to go find your niece," Emma admitted.

A shadow passed over his face. For a moment, she thought she'd made him angry.

"I probably should have, but I'd already reached a point where revenge was more important than most anything... except for Milah." His face twisted again into something that resembled disgust.

Ah. He was angry with himself. Perhaps she should have been relieved, but instead she just felt sad for him. She also felt strangely proud of him. Revenge had been such an ingrained habit, but look at him now. He'd actually told Rumplestiltskin that they'd "buried the hatchet" in the future. Sure, Killian didn't like him, but how could he? Sometimes Emma wanted to wring his neck herself.

Killian was looking at her oddly, and she quickly pushed her small smile away. He probably thought she was mocking him. Of course, Emma could have explained that she was excited for him and the man he'd become, but those weren't words that would easily slip out of her.

Determinedly, she forced her gaze back to the trees ahead.

After a moment of perplexed silence, Killian shook his head and continued. Maybe he could tell that her expression wasn't malicious or that he wouldn't get any answers if he asked about it. Either way, Emma was extremely grateful.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Once he reached the closest village, it was easy to ask for the location of Mrs. Moineau. Even if they didn't know her name, they knew the woman with the strange accent.

A smirk slid across Killian's face as the little wooden cottage came into view, the smoke billowing out of the chimney revealing the presence of at least one person.

"You should come join me and my mother for tea," he had said multiple times, even showing him the closest village on a map. Milah had urged him to go more than once, mostly because she wanted to go ("I want to see if she's as odd as her son!"). Killian had come close once or twice, but he'd always decided that it would be too painful for him. It would only remind him of what he might have had, had his own mother survived.

The idiot had told him where to find his mother, then betrayed him. In fairness, he would have guessed that Killian would be dead within the next month, and maybe he would have left if someone had bothered to tell him that he had escaped but, pardoned or not, Jacques was still an ex-convict; the soldiers wouldn't care enough about his safety to tell him the news.

Killian couldn't have planned it better himself.

If he'd had the chance to obtain a sword, it would have been slightly better. He would have loved to see Jacques' face when Killian appeared like an avenging angel and cut down his mother, closely followed by him. He might drag it out a bit to make it more painful, but that would be assuming that Jacques was so off his guard that he had no weapon. Killian was fairly certain that he would beat him in a fair fight, but it was clear that Jacques didn't believe in good form, so a fair fight was unlikely.

That left option two.

Killian laid back and waited for night to fall, hidden among the trees and brush around the corner from the cottage. Everything hurt, and he was still chilled, even if he'd managed to steal some new clothes on the way to the cottage. He was marginally more comfortable, especially after another acquisition. A traveling merchant had been bragging about his wares to an earlier village, including a magical hip flask that would never be empty. It was quite stupid of him; no one in the village would be able to afford it. Killian had been happy to relieve him of it when his back was turned.

Stars broke through the canvas of the sky one by one. He sat under them for an immeasurable time, ripping apart his ruined old clothes – freshly cleaned by a nearby stream - to wrap around his feet.

After enough time had past, Killian crept towards the cottage, arms full of dry twigs and brush. Silently, he began the tedious process of setting it around the building. After that was finished, he took out his flask of unlimited rum and began splashing it over the wood.

* * *

The Present

* * *

_Oh no_, Emma thought, feeling sick at the thought of what she knew was coming.

* * *

The Past

* * *

The final thing Killian did was bar the door.

He lit the fire there, then moved back a few meters to watch.

It caught quite quickly, but the screams didn't start until later. The door shook, Jacques' voice and an unfamiliar woman's shouted for help hysterically, but no one came. Eventually, the screams and coughs fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the snapping of burning wood.

Killian turned away in grim satisfaction. It was gruesome, certainly, but necessary. Now, to find his ship.

The thought of being reunited with Milah and his ship, combined with the knowledge that justice had been served, put him in a cheery enough mood to sing quietly as he put his back to the blinding glow of Jacques' pyre:

"Where Lagan stream sings lullaby

There blows a lily fair

The twilight gleam is in her eye

The night is on her hair

And like a love-sick lennan-shee

She has my heart in thrall

Nor life I owe nor liberty

For love is lord of all."**

* * *

*The word "contraception" wasn't coined until 1886.

*Text from "My Lagan Love", Irish Trad.


	42. Chapter 41

Again, sorry for the delay. There are approximately two chapters left. However, clearly my predictions are off and you shouldn't trust a word I say.

As always, thank you for your kind reviews and for continuing to read this. I promise to respond to your reviews as soon as this story is finished. They're always super appreciated!

I can never fully express my gratitude to my beta-extraordinaire, Trish Tavor. (Thank you!)

* * *

The Present

* * *

After that particularly gruesome tale, Emma forced her mind to move as far away from people being burned alive as possible. It was a subject that was now a bit of a sore point for her after believing that her own mother had been burned alive.

Now she completely understood Killian's apparent fear that she would think differently of him after hearing about his past. As usual, Killian was avoiding eye contact now, although she noticed that his gaze kept sliding towards her when he thought she wasn't looking.

She offered him a small smile, attempting to be reassuring. Emma was trying to be non-judgmental, and she thought she was largely succeeding. This was the story that made it hardest for her not to alter her views about the pirate. Still, she was able to remember that the Killian before her was almost a different person. She'd seen exactly the same thing with Regina - no, the evil queen - in the Enchanted Forest over the last few days. The Regina she knew was rough around the edges, sure, but she was no longer evil. It was the same with Hook; it was unfair to judge him for things that he'd done almost two centuries ago.

"Wait. Hold on a second. You still didn't tell me why you and Milah didn't have kids, not entirely. Did you try magical solutions after that? Did she abort the kid every time she got pregnant?"

"Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that part. Her abortion left her infertile," he said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

From his distant expression, Emma decided that another subject change was in order.

"What happened after... um-"

"After I burnt two people alive?" Killian finished her sentence bitterly.

Even though she'd bitten her tongue before when she'd seen him this disgusted with himself, Emma felt like she couldn't this time. Maybe she'd thought any words of comfort she had to offer would be shallow, or else they would be too touchy-feely to be comfortable, but Killian had offered comfort to her in her darkest moments over the past few days. It was about time that she did the same, even if it was uncomfortable. Before she could change her mind, she forced the words out.

"It was a long time ago. Sure, it was bad, but you're not that person anymore. Stop beating yourself up about it." She cringed internally. The words sounded incredibly stupid aloud.

Killian turned to her in surprise, searching her face with inscrutable eyes. After a moment, his expression softened. Emma cleared her throat, feeling awkward under his gaze. Perhaps sensing this, Killian continued his tale.

* * *

The Past - 1827

* * *

It took Killian months of traveling from port to port in disguise, but eventually he had the luck to come across a tavern owner who had seen both his ship and overheard where it was headed. The crew had questioned him about a certain man, asking if he'd seen him ("Oh, hell, you're him, aren't you?").

His crew was still looking for him. In spite of everything, Killian's heart swelled.

He paid to secure passage to his ship's next destination - yet another port along a string of ports around the prison he had escaped - and finally found his beloved ship. The sight of it would have made him cry in relief if he wasn't a feared pirate captain and above such things.

By the time he made it to the gangplank, he'd already been spotted. Milah ran to him, but was barely beaten by Kraken, who barked and jumped at Killian, attempting to lick every inch of him. Killian shoved him away just before Milah reached him. She jumped into his arms, almost knocking him over. Her eyes were wet as she pulled away to look at him, her hand coming up to caress his face before her lips met his. God, Killian had missed her.

Owen came next, a bright smile on his face. "Killian! We were worried that we'd never find you!"

"Were you?" Killian asked, eyes glinting.

Milah looked at him in clear confusion. "Of course he was. He's been leading our search for you, love."

The grin had slipped off of Owen's face. The crew had gone silent. Even Kraken was quiet, looking at Killian with big eyes.

"I know why you might be wary of me, Killian, but I swear that I knew nothing about Jacques' plan." Owen took a step forward, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, which only served to irritate Killian further. "When the members of the crew who went with you disappeared along with you, we thought they'd been arrested too, but then Guillaume came and told us everything. He'd tried to come warn us about Jacques, but he didn't make it in time..."

Against his better judgment, Killian wanted so badly to believe him. This was Owen, his second mate and his oldest living friend besides Milah. Even so, it seemed far too convenient that Owen would gain charge of the ship if Killian was gone. He was old friends with Jacques, and he was also intelligent enough to gain the crew's approval by leading a search for Killian. By now, Killian had been betrayed too many times to take the risk of forgiveness. Instead, he summoned several of the pirates behind Owen. They stepped forward somewhat reluctantly, but they were well-trained to follow the captain's orders. Owen fixed his eyes on Killian's in a silent plea, but Killian looked away.

"Put him in the brig."

To his credit, Owen didn't try to run or struggle.

"I've known you since we were kids, Killian," he said instead as he was pulled away. "I would never hurt you."

Killian did his best to ignore him, but it was difficult when Milah grabbed his arm, eyes flashing. "Killian, I believe him. This is wrong. Don't do this."

As hard as it was to resist Owen's pleas, it was harder to resist Milah's. Nevertheless, he had already made his decision, and he couldn't back down now without appearing weak.

He stepped around Milah and ordered the crew to prepare to set sail. Milah trailed behind, still arguing.

"What are you planning to do with him?" She demanded eventually. "If you kill him, Killian, I'll never forgive you."

At that moment, Killian realized that he hadn't decided what to do with him yet. It was hard to imagine killing Owen. He supposed he could maroon him or drop him off in another country so he wouldn't have to.

Killian decided to compromise. He did believe in good form, after all. "I have yet to determine his guilt, so he'll stay there for now as a precaution."

"Well, _I've_ determined his innocence," Milah snapped.

For a moment, Killian debated playing the 'I'm your captain so you'll obey me' card, but he quickly shoved that idea away. Any use of it in the past had been met with disastrous results. Instead, Killian ignored her, which led to Milah ignoring him until they reached the next port. Normally, Killian would have spent the evening with her, perhaps have a drink in the town or enjoy dinner on the unusually quiet ship, but her anger made that impossible. Faced with another night of stony silence and subtle glares, Killian decided to abandon the ship for the evening. He knew that his crew always went to the nearest tavern or brothel, so he decided to join them and get a drink. It was better than dealing with the guilt and anger that went through him whenever he looked at Milah or thought about Owen. Killian had yet to visit him or come to a decision about his fate, but he knew Milah had visited him multiple times. It was easier to pretend that his former friend didn't exist than to decide what to do with him.

Milah was sitting with her sketchbook in their cabin, her back facing Killian so that he could only see her beautiful dark hair. Kraken was laying next to her, head resting on his paws.

"You're welcome to join us at the tavern, if you wish," he murmured, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

She didn't acknowledge his presence, nor did Kraken. Even the dog seemed angry at him.

Killian bit back his annoyance. "Well, if you change your mind..."

He and several crew members walked to the nearest tavern to join some of the other pirates who had decided to start drinking early. If their captain compensated for his bitterness and heavy heart through over-exuberance, none of his crew were foolish enough to mention it.

On the way back, however, an outlet presented itself in the form of an old beggar in a worn brown cloak. Killian was walking along, joking with his crew in an attempt to forget the tatters that his life was currently in, when the beggar bumped into his right side with a fair amount of force. As always, being bumped into triggered Killian's temper immediately. He could swear whenever it happened that he could suddenly smell lavender or see his mother's face as she died. In this case, he had enough anger already built up to bring about truly disastrous consequences.

"Hey, you! Stop! Even gutter rats have more manners than you just displayed!" Killian hid his rage under a mask of joviality, but anyone who knew him well would have seen that trouble was brewing.

The man quickly apologized, and Killian caught sight of his face, completely covered with mottled, leathery, scaly skin of a grey-green colour.

"Ah. I was wrong," Killian observed, wondering vaguely what sort of skin disease would cause such disfigurement. He hoped it wasn't contagious, and made a point not to touch the man's skin directly just in case. "Not a rat at all. More like a crocodile."

With a laugh, he knocked the metal cup filled with coins to the cobblestone road. As the beggar knelt to pick them up, Killian easily knocked him to the ground with a well-placed kick. Of course, he intended for that to just be the beginning of a cathartic beating, but things turned out quite differently.

Rather than whimpering, the man giggled.

Killian's smile faded. He knew that face, but it no longer belonged to the cowardly shadow of a man he had first met. No, this creature had empty, amphibian eyes and a vicious, confident air.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Rumplestiltskin," Emma filled in, shivering slightly.

* * *

The Past

* * *

"... or, as others know me," the crocodile bared his teeth, "the Dark One."

A chill ran through Killian. Rumours of a Dark One had circulated throughout the land for years, but Killian had never been entirely sure that he believed them, even when he'd met broken men that told him stories of friends being turned to beetles and squashed underfoot. Yet, he could not refute the evidence before his eyes. This creature oozed power and evil. Killian forced himself to not recoil like his crew had. If he was going to die, something that seemed entirely possible considering that this all-powerful creature most certainly had a huge grudge against him, he intended to do so honourably.

For a while, Rumplestiltskin strutted around, clearly enjoying the tipped power balance. It occurred to Killian, then, that his life was just a terrible cycle of power gained and power lost. Perhaps it was poetic justice for him to die now, when he finally felt himself to be invincible.

Finally, the creature got to his point. "How's Milah?"

Killian could have sworn that his heart stuttered at her name. He didn't even need to think of his response. As much as he would prefer to live, he would also prefer not to drag Milah down with him if he died; he had a feeling that Rumplestiltskin would not take the news that Milah had left him of her own accord well. After feigning ignorance, he made up a quick lie.

"She's dead. Died a long time ago." Killian made a point to look in the creature's eyes, partially to make it look like he was telling the truth and partially to prove that he wasn't afraid.

Rumplestiltskin then challenged him to a duel. Killian attempted to draw his sword, but Rumplestiltskin insisted on dueling at dawn, likely to torture Killian with the knowledge of his imminent death.

Of course, Rumplestiltskin didn't know that the extra time was actually the best present Killian could have received; he could say goodbye to Milah.

As he walked back to his ship, his crew trailed behind, whispering worriedly. It would have been nice to think that they were concerned for him, but Killian wasn't delusional. He knew that the threat Rumplestiltskin had made to gut his crew if he didn't show up for the duel had shaken them. And, if he did duel Rumplestiltskin, they knew he would die, which would mean the uncertainty of a new captain. Killian had led some of them since he was twenty-one, and he was good at it. Whatever happened, their future was uncertain.

Killian was no fool. He knew that he could fight against Rumplestiltskin, but, if the rumours were true and Rumplestiltskin did possess a horrible dark magic, he doubted that he would be allowed to live. It all came down to honour. If Killian fought and won, would Rumplestiltskin let him live? Or would he use his magic to kill Killian anyway? The man he had known before was a coward, and cowards knew no honour. As hard as he tried to think of a way out of it, Killian couldn't help feeling the sinking dread that came along with the realization that he was doomed. He would still fight, of course. Perhaps he could catch Rumplestiltskin unawares and stab him before he could use his magic...

"Captain?"

He whirled around, eyes flashing. "What?"

Mullins, the man who had spoken, looked to the other men for support, but all of them were avoiding his eyes. _Cowards_, Killian thought to himself.

"Are you... um... planning to..." he licked his lips nervously, "...run?"

For a moment, Killian saw red. He briefly considered about a dozen different ways to make the crewmen around him suffer and die.

"Do I look like a coward, Mullins?" He asked softly, advancing.

The men retreated, just like they had with the crocodile. Of course, it was right of them to fear their captain. Still, Killian couldn't help but feel a small sense of discomfort at the thought of him being similar in any way to Rumplestiltskin. The thought made him rethink his decision to cut Mullins apart piece by piece.

"No," he said coolly. "Of course not."

The sigh of relief from his men was audible.

"Now, I'm sure that I don't need to say this, but Milah will not hear of any of this. Understood?"

The men nodded quickly, and Killian turned back around.

No one said a word for the rest of the journey back to the ship. Killian didn't even look at them once they reached the deck, instead hurrying down to the brig.

Owen was sitting with his knees pulled against his chest, but he leapt to his feet the second he saw Killian. From his pale face and trembling lips, Killian had the feeling that he was expecting a death sentence. Still, he stood tall, ready to accept his fate. Killian eyed him with satisfaction; he would make a good captain.

He unlocked the door and then his friend's manacles, which fell to the floor with a heavy thunk. "Well, Mallory, congratulations; you've been promoted."

Lifting his eyes to Owen's, Killian saw that he was eyeing his captain warily. He probably thought that he'd lost his mind.

"The Dark One may kill me tonight - if he is indeed immortal - and the ship needs a good captain, treacherous or not." Killian smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

For a moment, Owen just continued staring at him. Then his mouth started soundlessly opening and closing like a fish. That suited Killian fine.

He held up a hand with a scowl on a his face. "I don't want any pity or apologies, understood? If you dare to say anything of the sort, I'll toss you back in the brig."

Owen was shaking his head, his eyes wet. "You can't die, Killian."

Killian rolled his eyes; anyone could die. Still, he was touched. Rather than trying to strangle him for locking him up, Owen was concerned about him. Either he was an incredible actor, or Killian had been wrong to automatically assume his friend a traitor. Neither apologizing nor thanking him would come easily to him, though, so Killian searched around for something else to say.

"You smell, Mallory."

It was the first thing that came to his mind, and he flinched internally the second it was out of his mouth.

Owen's lips quirked. "I've been in here a while."

Their eyes locked, and both men started laughing.

* * *

Milah was sleeping when Killian came back to his cabin, curled around Kraken and cuddling him like a teddy bear. The dog was brave to endure her thrashing and kicking, Killian had to admit.

He knelt beside her and brushed a long curl out of her face before trailing gentle kisses across her skin.

She moaned slightly, eyes fluttering open to fixate on his face. He loved the way she looked when she woke up, her eyes hazy and her skin flushed. To him, she looked like a porcelain doll, too perfect to be real. Not even Milah could do this image justice, as talented of an artist as she was.

"You were right, love," Killian murmured.

"Of course I was," she said, her voice broken up by the remnants of sleep. "What in particular was I right about this time?"

"Owen."

Milah sat up, pulling up the nightdress sleeve that had slid down her alabaster shoulder. "You let him go?"

"Aye."

With a wicked grin, Milah nodded. "Good. I've been losing my mind." She grabbed his shirt collar and dragged his face down to hers for a kiss. When she pulled away, Killian followed her, kissing her with a passion that made his entire body tingle as Milah responded in kind. The dog stirred, finally awake, and padded out of the room. _Clever dog_, Killian thought once again.

"Mmm," Milah hummed into his mouth, a smile pulling at her lips. "I see you've missed me too-"

Killian cut her off again with his lips.

Some time later, they lay in a sweaty tangle under the blankets, the rhythm of their breaths falling into a perfect duet.

Tenderly, Killian traced her face with his left hand, marvelling at the perfect shape of her face and the smoothness of her skin. She cupped his cheek in response, her velvet thumb petting his cheek. "What is it?" She murmured, grey eyes searching.

He smiled, pulling her hand into his and kissing each knuckle. "I love you."

"I know," she said, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

For a moment he just looked at her. Then, he smoothed out her brow with his thumb. "I want to remember you like this forever."

She propped herself up on an elbow, her hair falling over her breasts. "Sweaty and spent?"

In spite of her light tone, Killian could see the confusion on her face. He and Milah had a loving relationship, but it was also one that had aged enough that it no longer required long declarations of love.

He paused. It was hard to explain. He wanted to remember her at ease, completely undone at his hands. He wanted to remember the exact shape of every part of her, that one freckle on her breast, the fall of the moon on her night-black hair and star-silver eyes: everything, really.

"Mine," he said, finally.

He lay awake after Milah fell asleep, watching her and thinking.

* * *

The Present

* * *

_Thinking about what? _Emma wondered. Having never awaited her imminent death before, Emma couldn't imagine. The closest she had come was in Regina's prison recently, and, even then, Emma hadn't allowed herself to accept death as an option; instead, she'd focused on an escape.

For a moment, she allowed herself to think about it. She supposed she'd think about her parents. Most of all, she'd think about Henry. She'd worry about what would happen to her family after she was gone: the impact that her death would have on them. Perhaps she would dwell on her regrets and let them consume her. Maybe she would even let herself give in to fear.

"Do you believe anything comes after death?"

He glanced at her, eyes sad. "I'm not sure, love. All I know is that my mum promised on her deathbed to 'send a little bird' to sing to me, and the bird never came."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian left an hour before dawn, dressing as silently as he could. As he walked to meet his death, he found something surprising; he wasn't afraid. Instead, he felt tired, and not because he'd stayed up the whole night. The weight of life had been increasing exponentially ever since he was a child. Now, it was almost unbearable. He felt as though yet another piece of him had shattered during his latest bout in prison, and he wasn't sure that he could get it back. Perhaps it was actually better that he died now, particularly in such an honourable way, before his heart grew too hard. It would be painful, he was certain, but he'd suffered pain before. And he would save Milah.

Of course, fighting was in his nature. He didn't intend to submit to his fate easily. Still, if death was in the cards for him, he realized that he would be alright with that.

_"O fare thee well, my little turtle dove,_

_And fare thee well for a-while;_

_But though I go I'll surely come again,_

_If I go ten thousand mile, my dear,_

_If I go ten thousand mile."*_

The song died on his lips right before he reached the place for the duel. A bell was tolling. He steeled himself to die.

Only, he didn't.

He fought hard, in spite of his imminent doom. Rumplestiltskin did try to draw it out, as Killian suspected. He had his hand in his chest, pulling out his heart-

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Why does everyone here love doing that so much?!" Emma said.

Killian grinned.

* * *

The Past

* * *

At first, Killian thought he was hallucinating from the pain.

"Stop!"

It was only when Rumplestiltskin said her name too that Killian realized - with a heart that would have sunk had it not been halfway out of his chest - that she was actually there. Rumplestiltskin released him, perhaps more due to shock than anything else. Killian's eyes flickered to the woman he loved, beautiful and powerful, her face a mask of shock and horror.

"Milah, you have to run!" Killian said, even though he knew that she never would. He also knew that running wouldn't save her if Rumplestiltskin had other plans for her, but perhaps Killian could provoke him and give her time to run-

"No. I'm not leaving without you."

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Bloody, stubborn woman," Killian said thickly.

Emma nodded. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop; she knew that revisiting this would be painful, and maybe even a bad idea since they were on their way to see the very man who was the villain in this story. Still, she couldn't quite suppress her morbid curiosity.

* * *

The Past

* * *

It was only when Milah begged her former husband to not hurt him that Killian became aware of the sword point hovering above his ribs. Milah hurried to explain the situation, while Rumplestiltskin shoved his sword into Killian whenever she said something he didn't like.

As she finished, the tension between the three of them was palpable. They seemed to be hovering in some sort of stasis, and there was no way that it could end happily. However, Killian wished it would end soon; the sword in his side was shooting hot waves of pain throughout his body. He could feel the blade rubbing against his bone, causing shivers to course through his body, which only made the pain more intense. He just wanted Milah to get away. How on earth had this gone so _wrong_?

"...you've come to save the life of your _true love_, the pirate_._" Killian's hearing kicked back in just in time to hear Rumplestiltskin's scornful words.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma felt a slight twinge in her chest at the words "true love". That only served to reinforce the idea that she definitely had feelings for Hook. If she felt this terrible at the thought of someone else being his true love... not that she wanted to be his true love, because that was too damn terrifying to even consider... Oh, God.

* * *

The Past

* * *

When Milah pulled out a red hat and started talking about magic beans, Killian really thought that he was losing his mind. However, Rumplestiltskin actually seemed interested.

"The magic bean in exchange for our lives."

A jolt, this time not from pain, went through Killian. For the first time that day, he suddenly felt something extremely liberating: hope. He stupidly thought that they would make it out alive.

Milah carefully helped Killian to his feet, letting him lean on her to walk.

"I'm going to kill you," she whispered to him as they walked. "How dare you get into this situation and not tell me a bloody thing?"

"I didn't want to worry you-"

She scowled. "Because finding your dead body wouldn't have _worried_ me?"

"-and I didn't want you to get hurt," he panted.

"Trouble in paradise?" Rumplestiltskin's voice taunted from behind them.

Milah grit her teeth. Lowering her voice even more, she explained how she'd run into the man with the magic bean when she'd followed Killian. It turned out that she hadn't been sleeping because she knew something was wrong with him ("how bloody stupid do you think I am?"). Originally, she'd brought backup, but she'd sent them back with their captive.

"You're brilliant- ah!" He gasped when she accidentally jostled him.

Her expression softened, and she walked much more carefully from then on.

The sun had risen by the time they reached the ship, and the sky was deceptively blue for something so dark as a murder to occur. Killian felt a sense of uneasiness as the crocodile circled around Milah. Quickly, her eyes flicked to Killian's to exchange a look, gauging his thoughts while allowing only him to see her worry. Killian's own worry was only broken by a flicker of pride when Milah tossed the magic bean that Rumplestiltskin's leathery fingers had reached for over to him. They had pulled that trick hundreds of times before; their motions fell into an easy synchronicity. Milah's coolness in the face of a mad ex-husband was incredible, and Killian felt his already plentiful admiration for her increase. She was truly a pirate now, Killian realized, if she could pull a trick like that and keep outwardly calm in a difficult situation.

For one beautiful, brief moment, it looked as though Rumplestiltskin would let them live: "I can see that you're truly in love."

Killian felt numb with relief as Milah walked back towards him, slowly distancing herself from Rumplestiltskin. Then, Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth once again, and everything went to pieces.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Quite literally," Killian added, drily. "The dark one always did have a flair for the dramatic."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Ropes flew and planks buckled as Rumplestiltskin went on a rant about Milah leaving Bae.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Quite ironic, Emma mused, considering that Rumplestiltskin had abandoned Neal himself. She wondered if he had been directing his anger at himself towards Milah. She supposed that it was much simpler to be angry at someone else than to be anger at oneself. At this thought, she felt a brief twinge of guilt, glancing at the man beside her.

* * *

The Past

* * *

In the end, the thing that sealed Milah's fate was the simple fact that she could never detach the image of her cowardly husband from the creature before her. Rumplestiltskin was no longer the snivelling coward that she had known and despised. Yes, he was a snivelling coward, but he was a powerful one with a taste for vengeance.

Killian could feel things spiralling out of his control the longer Rumpelstiltskin and Milah spoke.

"And why were you so miserable?"

Milah practically spat, her face twisted in rage. "Because I never loved you."

Later, Killian would replay Milah's death over and over again in his mind. Somehow, he always found himself pausing here. Was there a chance that she would have survived, had Milah not given in to her anger? If she had bitten her tongue for once, rather than allowing years of hatred and resentment to bubble over?

Sometimes, Killian hated her for it. She'd goaded the dark one. What had she expected to happen?

In the end, he always forgave her. It was her fire and passion that had caused Killian to fall in love with Milah in the first place. Being brave and reckless went with that. Even if it led to her death, it wouldn't be fair of Killian to resent her for it: not when it made her who she was.

Rumplestiltskin's hand plunged into Milah's chest. Time seemed to slow. Killian lunged towards them, only to find himself bound to the mast by magic. In that moment and those that followed, everything happened with a new clarity. Killian was hyperaware of his gasping breaths, the jarring rope against his flesh, the sneer on Rumplestiltskins face, and most of all, Milah's look of shock. Her face soon morphed into a mask of horrified disgust as she laid eyes on her heart, held in the hand of her former husband.

"No!"

Killian's stomach dropped as he realized what was about to happen. His own heart was pounding as if trying to beat for Milah too, now that her heart was gone. Finally finding a way out of his bondage, Killian lunged forward to catch Milah as she fell. In the future, he would also blame himself for not lunging at Rumplestiltskin instead. However, his vision had narrowed. The world could end, and all he would see would be Milah, collapsing to the ground like a flower felled by a strong wind. Before he knew it, she was in his arms, their faces only inches apart. Milah's hand came up to Killian's face, as it had done so many times in the past. It felt so warm and gentle. He could smell her familiar scent, feel the heat radiating off of her body. She felt so solid and alive. Killian's mind simultaneously felt like it was full of fog and as sharp as a needle. How was it possible that someone like this, someone who was his whole word, could be gone?

Defiant to the last, or perhaps simply devoted, Milah stared into his eyes. Killian detected no fear in her gaze. No, she was looking at him with absolute focus. It wasn't quite determination or defeat. No, she was looking at him as though he was her entire world too.

"I love you."

She gasped, drawing in the last breath that would pass through her lips. Then, she went limp in Killian's arms.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"I never said it back."

His voice was rough, and tears glittered in his eyes. For once, he wasn't trying to hide his emotion. Instead, he was looking at Emma almost desperately.

"I couldn't, I... I didn't have time, I just..."

She felt a pang in her heart. She was no stranger to regret, but Killian had lived with his for two hundred years.

Somehow, she wanted to make it go away.

Emma placed a gentle hand on his arm. "She knew, Killian."

He swallowed visibly, before nodding. "Aye."

Wiping at his eyes angrily, he took a moment to collect himself. "Bloody tale isn't even over yet," he said thickly.

"You don't have to tell me," Emma said, even though she wanted to hear the rest.

He shook his head, staring at her intently. Then he said the last thing that she expected.

"I want to."

A peculiar warmth spread through her at his words. "Okay," was all she said, but she knew he understood.

* * *

The Past

* * *

For a moment, all Killian could do was stare. His hand hovered over her cheek, brushing her hair slightly. He was afraid to touch her skin; he didn't want to feel it grow cold. Besides, he didn't need confirmation that she was dead; he had seen enough people die. More than anything, he knew it in his heart; it felt as though it had blown away, as dust on the wind, just the same as hers. It had happened so quickly; did it really only take a second to destroy two lives?

Then, perhaps just to keep the pain in his heart from tearing him apart, he turned to the man behind the destruction of the one piece of happiness he had left.

"You may be more powerful now, demon, but you're no less a coward!" He spat out the words, not caring if they would provoke the beast. He would be happy to follow Milah into death, preferably taking down Rumplestiltskin with him.

"I'll have what I came for now."

Nothing in the world would entice him to help this creature in any way. His left hand clenched tightly. "You'll have to kill me first."

"I'm afraid that's not in the cards for you, sonny boy," the creature said.

Before Killian could react, he was staring at his hand, still clenched in a fist, sitting on the deck of his ship. A cry came from his lips, as he doubled over in pain, vision blurring as Rumplestiltskin picked up his hand and tucked it away in his clothes. His stomach rolled worse than it had in any storm upon the seas; the pain was indescribable. He almost didn't notice the sword at his throat.

He found himself looking up into the reptilian, cold eyes of the dark one. "I want you alive, because I want you to suffer like I did."

Then, the creature giggled.

The second he turned around, Killian took his chance. His hand found a hook, formerly attached to the ropes that had held him captive as he watched Milah's heart be ripped out of her chest. He plunged it into the dark one's chest, only to hear the damned creature giggle once again, unharmed.

Killian stared as the realization hit: Rumplestiltskin was immortal. Immortal! So much for honour... Challenging him to a duel when the odds were entirely on his side only showed Killian once and for all that this man - if he could be called that - was the worst scum of the land.

Rumplestiltskin's next taunt only made Killian hate him more. "Killing me is going to take a lot more than that, dearie."

"Even demons can be killed. I will find a way." It was only as he made this vow that Killian realized the fire that was burning in his heart, waiting to consume the man in front of him, one that would drive his actions for the next two centuries.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma swore. She was beginning to understand Killian's former lust for vengeance. Hell, this almost made her want to kill Rumplestiltskin herself. She didn't think that she'd ever heard of such vindictive cruelty before in her life.

She didn't think that she'd be able to say any of that, though; it would just be redundant. Two hundred years was more than enough time for Killian to think about all of this, and he clearly had.

"So he got the bean?" She asked instead.

To her surprise, Killian shook his head. "Pirate, remember? I believe you're familiar with my skill at sleight of hand tricks."

That was one way of putting it, Emma thought, still slightly miffed at the memory of Killian stealing the magic bean right when Storybrooke needed it the most. But, then, a grin slowly spread across her face. "Wow. I bet he was angry."

Killian grinned too. "Aye, I'm certain he was."

* * *

*The Little Turtle Dove, English Trad.


	43. Chapter 42

I think this is the longest one yet... but I have to admit that I had a blast writing it. Okay, I think there will ACTUALLY be two chapters after this one now; this turned out way longer than I expected (I feel like that should be the new title of this story).

Thank you for continuing to read, favourite, follow, and review.

Also, a millions thanks go to Trish Tavor!

* * *

The Past - 1827

* * *

By the time Killian lost Milah, he was well-acquainted with the grieving process. He'd felt every conceivable emotion that went with loss and could probably recite them in order. Even so, experiencing death was one thing that never became easier with practice. It was as if Killian's mind forgot what loss felt like until it happened again, with the forgetting somehow making the each death more painful than the last.

It reminded Killian of the first time he'd been tortured. Lord Alasdair hadn't been there himself, but he'd sent a man that Killian privately dubbed "the pain expert", who did none of the work but gave all of the orders.

"The first rule of torture is to always keep the element of surprise," he'd said, whether to Killian or his tormentor, Killian had never been sure. "If the pain becomes too regular, too patterned, then the victim gets used to it, which means that he can numb his mind and protect himself. But, if he never knows when the pain will come, he'll forget the sensation, and it will be much worse with each blow: mental and physical torture."

This death was the lash that came when Killian thought that the torture was over: the final, horrible surprise that broke every part of him. And, of course, there were the little stabs of pain that remained when the source was removed, perhaps even worse than the moment the blow hit.

When a loved one dies, Killian had discovered, it was actually the little things that broke you.

It wasn't watching Milah's body thrown into the ocean and swallowed by the waves. That still hadn't felt real. No, it was the little things that made you realize once and for all that, despite any denial you may be harbouring, you would never see your loved one again.

At first, he at least had a blessed distraction. If Killian had found losing his hand painful, having the wound cauterized was a million times worse. However, it allowed him to reach the blessed state of unconsciousness-

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma found herself tripping over the ground once again, too focused on trying to figure out if she'd ever heard the word 'cauterized' before. Killian automatically reached out a hand to steady her, and she flashed him a grateful smile.

"What's that? 'Cauterized'?"

Killian shook his head in exasperation. "Bloody hell. Didn't they teach you anything at all in school?"

An irritated huff escaped Emma's lips. Was he saying that she was stupid? "I don't see how ship things and... whatever 'cauterized' is are useful in the real world."

He shot her a smirk, clearly ignoring her irritation. "I'm not certain that you can truly call your world 'the real world', love. This world is just as real as yours."

That thought made Emma's head spin. There was magic here, not to mention evil queens, crazy imps, castles, knights, and balls. That wasn't _normal_. Then again, she could see his point. His world was probably 'the real world' in his head, and hers was some weird one with jello, cars, and electricity.

Hook chuckled when he saw her expression, clearly realizing that he'd won that round.

"What is it?" Emma repeated, irritated now.

"It's when a wound is burned to prevent blood-loss and infection. Highly unpleasant, but necessary if you don't want to bleed to death."

Emma found herself staring at his arm in horror. "They burned it?" She shuddered, feeling thankful, not for the first time, that she had grown up with decent medical care.

Adjusting the woman on his shoulder, Killian nodded.

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian woke up to find his arm throbbing and feeling strangely heavy. Despair filled him at the thought of his lost hand. It felt like an itch that he couldn't quite scratch; he wanted to move his fingers, but there was nothing there to move. He was a cripple now, just like beggars on the street. The thought of all of the formerly simple tasks that he would now have to struggle through made him feel sick.

Then, of course, he remembered Milah. He remembered watching the light leave her eyes, the sensation of her going limp in his arms. The pain of a lost limb was nothing compared to a lost love. He had to learn to survive without his hand and to fight the despair so that he could see justice served to her murderer.

In the end, using the hook that had plunged into Rumplestiltskin's chest to replace his hand was an easy decision. Every time he looked at it, it would remind him to keep fighting.

It also reminded him of everything that he'd lost. Being in Neverland, the place where he'd lost his brother, didn't help.

The first few days were the hardest. As painful as his lack of hand was, it was nothing compared to the painful loneliness that came from Milah's loss.

There were reminders of her everywhere. Her sketchbook was still lying open on the table, a half-finished drawing of his own face looking back at him. Killian slammed it shut and shoved it into a cupboard.

Every time he opened the wardrobe, he saw her clothes. They still smelled like her. Sometimes, he would take them out and hold them, just to smell her familiar scent before it faded. He also slept on her pillow rather than his own. He'd hated her pillow before; it was far too soft. Now, he burrowed his head into it as he tried, and generally failed, to sleep, the cries of the lost boys in Neverland reflecting his own anguish. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Milah's pale face. His bed felt cold and empty without her. He even missed her thrashing about. He'd gone from being unable to sleep in the same bed as her to not being able to sleep without her kicking him.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he'd recite her poetry to himself, if only because it made him feel closer to her.

Some of her hairs were on his pillow or tucked into the sheets. There were some on the floor too. Killian had never noticed how much hair Milah lost until he felt a pang in his heart every time he saw one.

It was incredible how many things hurt him. He couldn't eat strawberries anymore because they'd been her favourite fruit, although he still served them onto her empty plate on the day that he forgot that he only needed to set the table for one, now.

He found some of her poems lying around near the windows. Her messy scrawl flew across the pages of finished or half-finished poems. He started to shake as he looked at them. Grief was quickly replaced by anger. Who did that woman think she was, begging him to let her run away with him and then leaving him alone? How was that a fair exchange? She'd wormed her way into his life and left him to pick up the pieces.

Before Killian knew what he was doing, he was ripping the pages up and watching the pieces flutter to the floor. Even that was difficult with one hand; he had to stab the pages with his hook and yank them apart. They fluttered to the ground like snow, broken words collecting at his feet. When every last bit of paper was on the floor, Killian looked at his shaking hand and felt tears sting his eyes.

Slowly, he dropped to his knees and sifted through the shreds of paper. It was stupid to be upset; he'd been the one to rip them up after all. Still, the satisfaction that came from destroying something was short-lived, and now he was left with the realization that he'd destroyed a part of Milah.

He tried to remind himself that he still had other poems by her, but they did little to stop his surge of emotion. Maybe he could sort through them, arrange them so that they were more or less back together, and be able to read them again. Even as the idea came into his head, he knew it was pointless.

Instead, Killian gathered the ripped pieces into his arms and sobbed.

Then, there was the day he saw his violin. He was throwing yet another object that reminded him of Milah into a cupboard, only for his violin to fall out. Killian caught it just in time, so that only the base of the instrument lightly hit the floor. A quick scan of the instrument revealed that it was undamaged, much to his relief.

It was at that point that he remembered that he couldn't play it anymore. There was really no point having it in good condition or even having it at all. It was just one more thing that had been taken from him.

Throughout everything that had happened in his life, one thing had been constant; Killian had always been able able to turn to music for relief. Even if he was too upset, he would always come back to his violin like a penitent lover and stroke her strings once again. Now, he couldn't even do that.

Killian would have snapped it in half in his anger, but, of course, he really needed two hands for that.

That realization had him leaning against his bed as he laughed hysterically. He couldn't even destroy a bloody instrument. Instead, he lifted his hook to chip away at it; that may be more satisfying anyway.

However, he paused just before he struck. The polished wood gleamed in the candlelight, and Killian found himself transported back to various times in his life: his mother's hand over his own as she tried to teach him to guide the bow more smoothly, the way Lyanna's eyes would flutter shut as he played a lullaby, sitting on a rooftop with Liam and listening to his own music soar through the night air, Milah's hair flying into her smiling face as she danced along to a lively fiddling tune.

He had dragged the damn instrument around from the top of the kingdom to the bottom. Was he really going to let Rumplestiltskin take one more thing from him?

He plucked at a string with his finger, listening to the instrument's familiar sound, his bottom lip quivering along with the string. He could feel his left hand itching for the bow, even if it was no longer there. If there was a way to play his violin again, he would find it.

He spoke to the pirate - a former blacksmith - who had created the brace for his hook.

That night, he hesitantly drew his attached bow across the strings. He knew that he would miss the ability to use his wrist, but this was far better than never playing again.

The song started out shakily for the first few minutes as Killian got used to this new way of playing. He knew that he wouldn't be able to play anything too virtuosic for a while. However, he didn't need to. Instead, he let his arm guide him through a heartfelt farewell that even hushed the cries of the lost boys. The music spread through the ship and out into the ocean, a lone spark in the Neverland night.

* * *

The Present

* * *

Killian had stopped speaking. For once, Emma couldn't quite figure out why. She couldn't see his face well with the noonday sun shining into her eyes, having momentarily reached the end of the forest for some farmlands.

In the end, she asked the first thing that she could think of. "Do you need a break?"

A pang of guilt went through Emma - she'd been having far too many of those lately, she thought ruefully - as she remembered that Killian had been monologuing throughout a long trek with the weight of an extra person on his back and a fairly recent injury.

He bit his lip, hesitating. "Not really. The sooner we get there, the better."

Emma shot him a skeptical look, seeing through the half-lie instantly.

He relented with a sheepish smile. "...Although I wouldn't mind if you passed me my flask. We can drink while we walk."

After a moment, Emma determined that he was, in fact, thirsty, and not just looking for an excuse to get her hands... well...

Now that they were out of the forest and into open fields where they could see anyone coming easily, Emma had finally convinced Killian to shift the woman to his other shoulder. She had taken the victory cheerfully, but that meant that she couldn't tell him to get his damn flask himself, now. She had also seen the way he winced when he moved his load, which made Emma suspect that his cut was bothering him and had maybe even reopened. The stupid pirate had still refused to let Emma carry their captive, and she didn't want to play tug-of-war with an unconscious woman, so she'd had to accept it.

All the same, she pulled the flask off his belt very quickly.

"Thanks, love." He flashed her a smile, not even tossing an innuendo her way. She was impressed and also concerned; he must really be tired. She caught herself watching him drink and looked away, only looking at him again when she realized that he was offering the flask to her.

She hadn't realized just how thirsty she was until she drank. It was with great difficulty that she stopped after a few gulps, but it was necessary. Emma didn't really want to stagger into Rumplestiltskin's castle.

"What happened to Owen?" She asked, wiping her mouth. "Did he die in Neverland? Or did you demote him?"

Hook's eyes were suddenly drawn to his feet. "He left."

Emma's surprise must have shown on her face, because Killian was quick to offer an explanation.

"No, Swan, I didn't kill him. Perhaps I should have, but I did have some honour. I had locked him up for nothing, which meant that I owed him a debt."

Shaking her head, Emma quickly clarified, "I wasn't surprised about that, actually. I was surprised that he left at all." In truth, she hadn't even thought of the possibility of Killian killing Owen. It was probably naive of her, but she supposed that she had been letting her views of Killian now cloud her views of Killian in the past.

"He claimed that I'd changed beyond recognition, that Killian Jones no longer existed underneath Captain Hook." He shook his head, adding quietly. "He was probably right.

"Revenge wasn't for Owen; I always thought that he was far too soft-hearted to be a pirate. In hindsight, I'm surprised that he stayed as long as he did. The man was too loyal for his own good."

Despite the blow this must have been, Killian still spoke of his friend with a wistful fondness. She wondered how long it had been since he'd forgiven his friend; she had some difficulty imagining the man she had originally met feeling the way he felt now. Once again, she felt a surge of pride on his behalf.

"And your niece? You said that you met her later."

The pirate's eyes suddenly sparkled with laughter. "Aye."

* * *

The Past - 1943

* * *

Killian couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped when he saw the Adler residence. Despite being in the city, it had a large fence and gate around a beautiful stone house. The grounds were well-maintained, complete with flowers and cherry trees. He could easily imagine a child playing in that garden, weaving flower crowns or climbing trees. The fact that his niece hadn't grown up in a hovel already comforted him.

The servant at the gate let him in with a small bow of respect. For a moment, Killian panicked. What was he supposed to do? Bless the man?

"Thank you, child," he said, offering what he hoped was a kind, fatherly smile. "The Lord blesses you for your service."

Fortunately, the servant didn't seem to notice anything amiss. So far, so good. Killian had to remind himself not to fidget in his ill-fitting disguise. It didn't help that the robe was almost like a dress; as someone accustomed to pants, Killian felt very uncomfortable. Why on earth would someone who was supposed to be celibate wear a dress, anyway? Wouldn't it be that much easier to _not_ be celibate?

The servant led him into the house, which was as beautiful inside as it was outside. Killian could hear a woman singing, a mezzo-soprano with a voice like melted dark chocolate, a delicacy with an unforgettable taste and texture that Killian had enjoyed once on his travels. A chill ran through him as he wondered whether the singer was his niece. Likely not; she sounded far too cheerful. It must be a traveling minstrel there to comfort the family.

He was led into a sitting room with a crystal chandelier. The sun streaming through the lace curtains made rainbows bounce off of the walls, giving the room an almost ethereal look. Killian was just about to sink into a very comfortable-looking chair to wait when a woman swept into the room.

Mistress Adler's face was blotchy and red as her hair, which created a stark contrast to her black velvet dress and pearls. While she appeared to be middle-aged, she was wearing ridiculously high heels and a corset that was at least several sizes too small, showing her wrinkled breasts in a way that left very little to the imagination. Brightly coloured make-up had been applied to her face in excess, but half of it had dripped down her face from tears. If anything, Killian imagined that it was an improvement from a freshly done face, which he imagined would make her look as though she was a minstrel herself. In short, she had the appearance of a woman who had been beautiful in her youth and never quite figured out how to adjust her appearance to suit her age.

The second she saw Killian, she started bawling and wringing her hands. To his surprise, she dropped to kneel at his feet. Killian had to forcibly remind himself not to back away.

"Oh, father, I'm so glad that you're here," she sniffed.

Killian nodded seriously, offering a hand to help her to her feet. "Of course, daughter. God would not wish me to abandon a faithful family in their time of need."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma could no longer hold in her laughter.

"A priest? _You_?"

Killian smirked. "I'll have you know that I made an excellent priest. Only one person ever caught on, and I used that disguise more than once."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"Mycroft's death has been hard enough, and now this! I'm certain that Irene-"

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma was so surprised that she stopped walking. "Wait. Hold on. Irene Adler is your niece?!"

Few happy memories came to mind when Emma thought of her childhood, but she did fondly remember hours spent reading Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes.

Her surprise was mirrored by Killian. "You've heard of her? How?"

If she didn't know better, Emma would have said that he sounded somewhat hopeful.

"She's kind of famous for being the only person to outsmart Sherlock Holmes," Emma explained, wondering if Killian had known him too.

He looked at her strangely, so taken aback that it was almost comical.

"What?" She asked, starting to walk again.

Killian followed her with a grin. "All in good time, love."

* * *

The Past

* * *

"...I'm certain that Irene is possessed by a demon. You must cast it out!"

Rather than getting up, Mistress Adler was now tugging at his robe, which Killian was worried might rip. The man he had stolen it from that morning had been considerably smaller. He barely resisted the urge to yank the robe away, instead taking her hand gently in his own and forcibly pulling her to feet this time.

"My dear lady, there is no need for your distress. God will provide a solution to your problem if it is His will, and I shall happily be the vessel. What are the symptoms of this possession?"

Killian was quite proud of this speech. He thought it sounded quite convincing considering he knew next to nothing about religion, and, evidently, so did Mistress Adler.

She ran a hand through her hair, making it even messier. "She told me to my face that she's happy that Mycroft is dead. She refuses to obey me and scares away all of her suitors. Twenty-one and still unmarried! She keeps demanding to go to university. A young woman! Can you imagine? Where did she get these ideas?"

Schooling his expression into one of sympathy, Killian secretly rejoiced. His niece sounded like a formidable woman with a mind of her own. Certainly, parts of this description were disturbing, but Killian prayed-

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma snorted.

* * *

The Past

* * *

-that Mistress Adler had been exaggerating.

After some more complaining, Killian led the woman through a prayer that he made up on the spot like everything else.

When he finished, Mistress Adler was looking at him oddly.

"Is there something troubling you, daughter?" Killian felt some worry bubble up. Perhaps he could knock out the blasted woman and make it to Irene. He could pretend that she fainted-

"I've never heard a prayer start with 'greetings, God"," Mistress Adler said, blushing slightly.

* * *

The Present

* * *

"Come on. Even I know not to do that, and I've never been to church in my life!" Emma teased.

Killian shrugged. "I covered it up well. In my defence, I was praying under pressure."

* * *

The Past

* * *

Killian looked severely at the poor woman, shaking his head. "It is not for you to question a man of God, daughter. God Himself came to me in a vision and instructed me to pray this way."

* * *

The Present

* * *

By this point, Emma was almost choking with laughter. "And she bought that?"

"Let us say that intelligence was not one of her assets," Killian said.

* * *

The Past

* * *

After listening to the woman apologize profusely for some time, Killian raised a hand to stop her, growing annoyed once again with her blubbering. "Enough, child. God forgives you."

Finally, Killian was able to get Mistress Adler to take him to his niece. His heart was pounding as they approached a large wooden door. The singing was much louder here, and Mistress Adler only seemed distressed by this.

"Do you hear that, father? She's singing a frivolous song about promiscuity when her brother is _dead_," the woman sniffed.

Killian recognized the aria, in fact. His mother had sung the soprano role in that particular opera more than once.

"...Se nel tuo petto ei suedem

S'egli ti becca quì,

Fa tutto quel ch'ei chiede

Che anch'io farò così."*

Killian was impressed, but the song also generated a stab of sadness. His mother would be so proud. _Liam_ would be so proud.

"I should warn you. She'll likely be very resistant to your attempts to help," Mistress Adler said. "I just wasn't sure what else to do."

She wrung her hands again, turning to Killian with fresh tears in hers. "You will be able to help, won't you?"

Killian's response was automatic. "Aye."

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he panicked. "Men! Amen! Yes, I shall!" He held out his arms for emphasis.

Mistress Adler looked taken aback for a moment, but then she offered him a timid smile. Killian wished she would just get on with it and let him finally see Liam's child. His heart was pounding at the prospect of finally meeting his one remaining family member. He didn't care if she insulted him for the entire time that he was there so long as he could meet her.

The singing stopped as soon as the door opened. A young woman turned towards them, eyes narrowed. They surveyed him from top to bottom in a way that was startling and not entirely socially appropriate. What was really shocking, though, was the fact that she did it so coldly. If not for the entire lack of emotion in her eyes, Killian might have thought that she was checking him out.

* * *

The Present

* * *

His use of the modern phrase took Emma aback. "Checking you out? Where did you hear that?"

Killian considered. "Hmm. I believe I heard that wench who worked at the diner use it. It wasn't a great leap to figure out what it meant given the context."

Once again, Emma was impressed. Based on Killian's pleased expression, he could tell.

* * *

The Past

* * *

For his part, Killian could only stare at Irene in awe. How she was unmarried by the age of twenty-one, Killian had no idea. She wasn't conventionally beautiful by any means, but there was something about her that was undeniably alluring. She had a long neck, high cheekbones, and a sharp nose that was reminiscent of a bird of prey's beak, but it was her intelligent eyes under heavy-set brows that first grabbed Killian's attention. Tall, lithe, and dressed in delicate red silk, she appeared regal and imposing. It wasn't difficult to believe that she was a descendant of royalty.

"Irene, this is-"

Irene turned to Mistress Adler, eyes cold. "You needn't have bothered. Nothing could possibly entice me to regret Mycroft's death. Frankly, I'm appalled that you're this upset when his impending death was foreseeable to anyone with an ounce of logic. He was arrogant beyond belief and had a terrible temper. It was inevitable that he'd duel with someone, and his duelling skills were abysmal."

Face crumpling, Mistress Adler turned to Killian. "You understand now? This is clearly beyond mortal help. I'm at my wits end!"

Irene dropped onto the couch, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. "Impossible. To be at your wits end, you would need to have wits in the first place."

Killian flinched, fully expecting Mistress Adler to start grabbing at him in her hysterics again. He wasn't sure that his priestly garments could survive another assault. Just to do something that would make him look busy, Killian crossed himself again.

"Devilry," he said solemnly. "Fortunately, the Lord makes me certain that I can help."

"Thank you," Mistress Adler said, crying more noisily, moving towards him.

"God tells me that you must leave us alone now, if you wish to achieve the best divine results," Killian said as quickly as he could while retaining his priestly dignity.

Mistress Adler nodded and fled the room.

Irene didn't speak until Mistress Adler's footsteps had faded away down the hall, but she did stare at Killian with her startlingly blue eyes, much like his own, face unreadable. Eventually, she leaned back on the couch again, a smirk on her face. Killian opened his mouth to speak, but Irene interrupted him before he could make a sound.

"Oh, please. Don't bother. You're clearly not a priest. Brother or uncle?"

Whatever Killian had expected her to say, it certainly wasn't that. For a moment, he was too shocked to respond. He felt as though he'd somehow missed a part of the conversation, as though he'd blinked and somehow traveled into the future.

Much to his confusion, Irene showed no fear or anger, much less any inclination to start shouting for help. She just continued to stare at him unblinkingly, head cocked to the side.

When he didn't respond, she sighed dramatically.

"Your face is tanned, and we haven't had much sun here, so you spend a lot of time abroad and in the sun, not in a church. Your hand is covered by a glove, likely to hide calluses from using a sword or tan lines from rings-"

Killian raised an eyebrow when his brain finally caught up. "Hand?"

Irene shot him an irritated look. "Your left hand is too stiff to be real, and eyeliner is hard to wash off. You also have a hole in your ear for an earring. What sort of priest wears eyeliner or earrings? A reformed one who doesn't wash, perhaps, but it's unlikely that all of this would occur in combination, especially with the tattoo and ill-fitting robe."

She spoke so quickly that Killian was barely able to process what she was saying. However, at the word tattoo, Killian glanced at his right wrist nervously. This only confused him further; his wrist was clearly covered by his robe.

Following his gaze, Irene paused for breath and then continued at the same pace, a manic glint in her eyes. "I saw it when you crossed yourself. I didn't see what it looked like, but I saw enough to see that it was a tattoo. A monk may not have clothes that fit well, since no one cares about _them_, but everyone knows that priests are corrupt and vain - and usually from the nobility, who are more or less the same - which would mean that you would never accept a robe that looked like that. Then there's the scar on your cheek."

Irene tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed. "Actually, your whole face. First, the scar-"

"Lots of people have scars," he countered.

She continued as though he hadn't said a word. "It _could_ be a scar from childhood or some traumatic event, especially since it's an old scar, but it more likely points to a violent lifestyle in combination with the other facts.

"You're also attractive. Most people wouldn't give a good-looking child to the church, and most good-looking men wouldn't swear to be abstinent unless they had no hope of marriage or intercourse; paying for such things is hardly good for the ego, which a priest would have in abundance."

Her description of the church and its personnel amused Killian, having never been particularly religious himself unless it suited him.

Irene leaned forward, lips quirking to the side as she thought. "In fact, I'm not even sure they'd let you into a church at all; you're _devilishly_ handsome. They'd think you sold your soul."

* * *

The Present

* * *

Emma turned to Killian in amazement. "Hold on. You got that phrase from your niece?"

Killian shot her a smile that could only be described as sinful, as if to prove the 'devilishly handsome' description true. "She certainly knew how to observe, didn't she, love?"

Her lips quirked.

* * *

The Past

* * *

As interesting as this was, Killian wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to admit his identity. It wasn't too late for Irene to call for help, after all.

"Perhaps I'm a reformed, devout man," Killian suggested, casually leaning against the intricately painted, expensive-looking wall.

Irene shot him a look that could have peeled that paint off of the walls. "No. Who would choose a priest's lifestyle willingly? No one would live in semi-squalor and abstinence if he had the choice."

Killian had to bite his tongue to keep from agreeing with her.

"Anyhow, a reformed pirate who is so reformed that he becomes a priest - and a priest devoid of vanity - is extremely unlikely, but the corrupt system of appointment in which a former criminal could never rise past monk makes it impossible. That means that you're a pirate dressing up as priest. So, are you my brother or my uncle?"

His niece turned to him expectantly, pale face slightly flushed now.

Again, Killian felt as though he'd missed something important. "What makes you think we're related?"

Irene drummed her fingers forcefully against the arm of the sofa, a scowl fixed onto her face.

The longer Killian was with her, the more mixed his feelings became. This was Liam's daughter and his niece, yes, but he was finding it difficult to find anything in Irene that remotely reminded him of Liam. Perhaps her stubbornness and all-knowing air were characteristics that Liam had at points, but, overall, her emotionless observations and generally frigid demeanour reminded him uncomfortably of Giselle. He could easily picture Irene plotting the deaths of various people for her own advantage. The only difference was that he doubted that his niece would feel any remorse at all.

"I had hoped that a relative of mine would be able to keep up with my genius," Irene muttered, looking up at her uncle with some resentment. "It's self-evident that we're related. I considered the fact that you might be a pirate trying to kidnap me for ransom, but you knew that a priest had been sent for, which means that you knew some information about me before you came. You've probably been watching us for some time."

She leapt off of the couch and began to pace, practically vibrating with energy.

"If so, you likely know that my parents-" she said the word so disdainfully that Killian began to wonder if she knew that he was adopted, "-would be unlikely to pay a ransom for me."

Once again, Killian was shocked by the utter lack of emotion Irene showed as she said this. Wasn't it normal to be torn up by the knowledge that your parents, even adopted ones, didn't love you enough to save you? He felt a surge of anger towards the Adlers.

Oblivious, Irene was still speaking. "Besides, there are much better people to target, and, as a pirate - even a disguised one - you're taking a risk by being in the capital. I'm sure there's a price on your head, so there must be an important reason that you're here. My first thought was father, but I doubt it. My mother spoke fondly of my father, so he wouldn't have killed her."

Killian's blood froze, and he was suddenly very thankful that he was leaning against the wall. "Killed her?" He swallowed hard. "But your mother was just here."

Irene fixed Killian with a stern look that made him feel considerably younger than he'd felt since childhood. "I already know everything important about you, so there's no reason to lie. There has to be a reason that you didn't come see me before-"

Guilt surged through Killian. It was an emotion that he hadn't felt for a while, and it surprised him with its intensity. If Irene noticed a change in his countenance, she didn't mention it. Based on her attitude so far, Killian wondered if it even bothered her. Perhaps he shouldn't feel guilty at all.

Then again, perhaps this should make him feel worse. Maybe if she'd had a parental figure who loved her, then she would be a different person entirely.

Killian knew in his heart that he couldn't have come sooner, not really. He was a pirate who also happened to be the enemy of the most evil creature in any world. Even if he disregarded that, misfortune had changed him into someone truly unfit to care for a young child. A grieving, vengeful pirate couldn't take in a little girl. He'd already tried to take in Baelfire; if that experience had taught him anything, it was that being a father was not in the cards for him. Besides, Peter Pan and his followers had hardly increased his fondness for children.

As if sensing that he was no longer listening, Irene was walking directly towards him, glaring. "As far as I know, the only people who knew the identity of my real parents were my mother and my adopted family. Of course I figured out my mother's identity. She didn't seem like a particularly warm person and, while she and my adopted mother were clearly friends, they were also clearly distant ones. Whenever my mother came, she barely talked to Mistress Adler. Her fixation on me when she clearly had little patience for children and people in general, the safety risks she took coming out in public as the king's advisor, a few physical similarities... obvious."

By this point, she was only a few feet away. From this distance, Killian could see that she was an inch or so taller than him. He tried not to let the realization hurt his pride, but it was difficult, especially with her deconstructing him in such a way.

"Then, of course, she was murdered in a jail identifying a criminal," Irene continued. Killian was shocked that she hadn't collapsed from lack of breath yet. "You, I presume, since you're a pirate. It seems unlikely that you're my father. If you were my father and knew about me, you would have visited just like my mother, or else still be together with her. My adopted mother would gossip about some officer my real mother loved, and if she loved him, she would have told him that I existed. No, he was likely dead."

Irene looked at him closely, gauging his reaction. "Definitely dead," she concluded.

Her nonchalance about the matter hurt, as much as Killian would like to pretend that it didn't. He wanted to tell Irene about Liam. It wasn't fair to be angry with her when she didn't realize what she had lost. That, Killian thought, was the real tragedy. She had never met Liam; she didn't know that he would have been the best father that she could hope for. She couldn't know the grief that tore Killian apart whenever he thought of his brother. Then again, he was afraid that he would tell her and she wouldn't care.

"Also, if you were my father and you killed my mother over keeping me a secret, then you would have come to find me sooner. You're not my father then. Which, based on your age, leaves me with a young uncle or older brother. Clearly a relative; we have the same eyes and nose. It could be chance, but I don't believe in chance."

Killian shook his head in amazement. She'd had, what, thirty seconds to figure all of this out?

Irene nodded. "And you're looking impressed. If you weren't a relative, you would be angry or scared, but you're proud. Clearly close with one of my parents, presumably my father if you killed my mother. Why? If you're my brother, perhaps for abandoning you and then identifying you in prison. Identifying you, presumably for execution, could be motivation for an uncle too."

Opening his mouth, Killian was silenced once again by a glare.

"No, don't tell me," she ordered, before continuing, eyes darting about in thought. "As an uncle, you and my mother must not have gotten along, so she may have kept me a secret, providing you with a reason to kill her. That may not have been enough, though. Maybe she wronged you in some other way. Perhaps you blame her for my father's death.

"Regardless, your piracy and guilt likely kept you away from me. I would say that you were definitely my uncle, but I assume that's quite an age gap. Perhaps you're older than you look-"

_You have no idea_, Killian thought to himself.

"-why would my mother identify you as my brother, though? Perhaps you had a falling out, or perhaps they figured out your identity..."

Killian shook his head. "My identity?"

"Yes, the most important part." She bounced a little on her feet, looking like a child on her birthday. "Why didn't my mother claim me as hers? Possibly because she was unmarried when she was pregnant, but she clearly cared for me, which makes me think that she might have kept me if possible-"

That idea had never occurred to Killian before. Then again, he'd never wanted to look very deeply at Giselle and her motives; it was easier to just think of her as evil.

"-which makes me think that my father may have been killed for a reason, and you may be targeted by the king for a reason beyond piracy. You can't always have been a pirate, if you were close with my father. A naval officer and pirate, close? It's a conflict of interest: not possible. So, what fits with all of these facts? Our family is a threat to the crown on my father's side somehow. So... brother or uncle?"

By this point, Irene was slightly breathless, but her eyes were flashing triumphantly. Just then, Killian became aware of his open mouth and promptly closed it.

"Bloody hell. That was impressive."

"I know." Irene ran a hand absently through her chestnut hair.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Not very modest, are we?"

That observation was met with a disdainful snort. "I have nothing to be modest about. I'm about a hundred times more clever than every person I know."

Not entirely knowing how to respond to such a statement, Killian quickly changed the subject. "If you knew I was a pirate, why didn't you give me away?"

Irene collapsed back on the couch with a groan. "Because you were no danger to me, and you were interesting. You still haven't answered my question! I also want to know why the crown hates us."

Killian launched into a quick explanation that left Irene totally unruffled, as though she had expected every word. She would nod occasionally or cut in to finish his sentence in an obnoxious way that would annoy Killian if this wasn't Liam's daughter. He even told her about Neverland, which caused some annoyance in his niece ("I can't believe I didn't consider that. But it hardly seems fair, does it? It's not a usual solution; most would call it impossible.").

Once he finished, Irene nodded once and flapped her hand towards the door. "Thank you for the diversion. I'm done with you; you can leave now."

Clearly, she expected to be obeyed. She had adjusted herself so that she was sprawled over the entirety of the couch, already lost in thought.

Surprised, Killian felt his temper flare. He was a pirate captain, and one who had gone to enormous trouble to find her. He wasn't someone to be dismissed like a servant. "No. Now, I have some questions."

Irene opened her eyes to shoot him a glare, unperturbed by his slightly menacing tone. "Make it quick. I have an experiment upstairs that could potentially cause some damage if left unattended. And I'll only respond if they're interesting."

After a moment of consideration, Killian decided that he didn't want to know about that experiment, although he was now slightly concerned that the house might collapse on his head.

Taking a deep breath, Killian prepared to ask the most difficult question: "Are you angry at me for killing your mother?"

Killian hadn't gotten the sense that she was, but he found his niece to be a difficult person to read. However, in this case, it seemed as though he had succeeded.

"No. She was clearly stupid if she allowed you to kill her. In fact, I should probably thank you; her death gave me more time to read and experiment. Next question."

Killian couldn't help but feel slightly disturbed by this revelation, even if it worked out well for him.

He took a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose, reconsidering this next question for the millionth time in the past hour. He couldn't believe he was actually asking this.

"Would you like to come live with-"

Her response was so quick that it cut him off mid-question. "No. Dull."

Killian blinked, reminding himself that it was probably for the best. Still, part of him couldn't help but be a bit miffed. Although Killian didn't pray to God, he did take that opportunity to pray to Liam for the strength to resist the urge to wring Irene's neck.

"Well, I'd like to help you in some way," he said.

"Don't try to buy my affection. It won't work." She glanced at him. "It's nothing personal; I don't like anyone."

_This is Liam's daughter,_ Killian reminded himself to keep from losing his temper. _She's half Liam. _"I hear you're interested in university."

Irene rolled her eyes. "They don't let girls in. They won't make an exception for me, even though I snuck in and _proved_ I was smarter than the whole lot of them."

Killian could imagine how well that went.

"I'm dressed as a priest-"

"Terrible disguise, by the way. I'm shocked that you're not in prison. You're fortunate that everyone else is as unintelligent as you."

Gritting his teeth, Killian took a few deep breaths to delve even more deeply into his admittedly drained well of patience. "That can work to your advantage, too. You're a mezzo-soprano and a good one. I have trouble believing that you haven't performed before."

"Well done. You've observed something so obvious that it could be written across my face-"

"You must have done pants roles before."

Irene's eyes flickered with interest as she realized where he was going with this. "Yes, of course. But they won't let me in without some proof of identity, no matter how convincing I am as a man."

It was exciting to be a step ahead of his niece for once. Killian couldn't help the grin that slowly spread across his face. "It's lucky for you, then, that I know some wonderful forgers. All you have to do is pick a name."

For the first time, Irene looked happy. Before she had looked happy in a manic way, but this looked genuine. For a moment, she looked almost normal.

"Holmes was my grandmother's maiden name-"

Killian almost interrupted to correct her. Then he realized that she was talking about her other grandmother, someone who Killian had never given any thought to before.

"-and I always thought that if I reproduced-"

He only barely succeeded at hiding his laugh with a cough.

"-that I would name my son Sherlock."

* * *

The Present

* * *

"No way," Emma muttered.

* * *

*English: "If in your breast he [love] settles,

if he pecks you here

Do all that he commands,

as also I will do thus."

\- Translation by Sally Mouzon. The aria is "È amore ladroncello" from _Mozart's Così fan Tutte._


	44. Chapter 43

There will be one more chapter as an epilogue.

* * *

The Present

* * *

For a moment, the only sound was the whisper of the wind through the forest leaves. While Emma had gotten used to the fact that her world's version of most stories were inaccurate, she was struggling to wrap her mind around the fact that Killian was related to the world's most famous detective. At this rate, John Watson would be Rumplestiltskin's cousin, or else Emma's great-great-great-great grandfather, or maybe a frog that Irene accidentally turned human with a kiss.

"Sherlock Holmes was your niece _crossdressing_? How have you not mentioned this before?" Emma demanded, startling several birds in the nearby trees into flight.

Annoyingly, Killian didn't even bother to look at her. "It never came up."

She couldn't believe this. Here she was having an existential crisis, questioning her childhood dreams and heroes, and Killian didn't even seem to think that never mentioning his niece was an oversight.

Finding that he had gained considerable ground during her moment of outrage, Emma had to jog to catch up with him. "How did it not come up?!"

Killian raised an eyebrow, his trademark smirk back in place. "I didn't know that you'd heard of her, Swan." He paused, expression abruptly melting into something serious. "Nor did I know that you had such an interest in my affairs."

She didn't miss the pointed look he shot her way.

"Dr. Watson was my favourite character in the books," she said quickly. "Did you get to meet him?"

"I only saw Irene sporadically - Pan rarely let me out of Neverland, and Irene moved constantly until she finally moved into Baker Street with John - but, eventually, yes."

"And? Did you like him?"

Killian chuckled. "Not at first. I thought he and Irene were lovers. In the end, he won me over. He was honourable, and he was good for Irene."

Question after question popped into her head. "How did they become friends? Why would Irene move in with someone else?" Irene hadn't struck her as a particularly personable person.

"He was paradoxical in some ways. Perhaps Irene found him interesting." Grinning, he added, "initially, they probably became friends because John was the only person who could stand her. That man had insurmountable patience when it came to her behaviour."

It was a relief to know that one of her childhood heroes still sounded like... well, a good person.

"He'd also been a wanted murderer for a time, which was likely of interest to Irene considering her fixation with crime."

Or not.

"Seriously?" Emma muttered.

"He didn't actually commit the crime, of course. In fact, he was saved by a letter that Irene sent to the army when she heard the story. She figured it out within seconds, I'm sure."

Once again, Emma found herself wondering how on earth the stories of her world could apparently get such major details wrong. Then again, maybe the stories were created in her world first. Maybe the characters came to life in a parallel universe only to do their own thing. That train of thought was only giving Emma a headache, so she quickly abandoned it.

"Okay. So, Sherlock faked his - um, her - suicide. How did that happen? And-"

Emma's breath was knocked out of her as she walked straight into Killian's stationary back. With the added weight of the woman over his shoulder, he almost went careening to the forest floor, but Emma managed to grab his coat just in time to keep him upright. She was reminded momentarily of their first adventure on the beanstalk, when she'd stopped him from walking into a trap. They were just as close now: close enough for Emma to feel the heat radiating off of his body and to see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

Things were different this time, though. Killian's lips quirked, but he bit back whatever innuendo was almost certainly on his tongue. "Thank you."

Emma had finally gotten her breath back. "What the _hell_, Hook-"

Then she realized why he'd stopped. From this vantage point, she could see through the leaves to-

"Rumplestiltskin's castle," Emma breathed, only barely stopping herself from running the rest of the way. She had never been so ready to go... home. The word popped into her head so automatically that she felt stupid for not realizing it before.

"Almost there, love," Killian said, relief evident on his face.

Nerves and something like excitement bubbled in Emma's chest.

Of course, Emma should have known that something would go wrong; it always did. She had no magic to work the wand Rumplestiltskin had found and get home. Rumplestiltskin had screwed them over _again_, and, for a moment, she had thought that Killian was right when he predicted that Rumplestiltskin was about to kill them.

In fact, killing them may have been better than being trapped in his vault. She bit her tongue to keep from screaming in frustration.

Killian, however, seemed perfectly calm.

"I'm just trying to figure a way out," he explained when she yelled at him for trying to touch Rumplestiltskin's things.

She had to admire his tenacity. From his stories, she knew this wasn't the worst situation that he'd ever found himself in, and he'd somehow escaped every impossible situation before. Here they were, stuck in a vault, potentially for the rest of their lives, and he still hadn't given up. She supposed she should have suspected as much from a man who spent nearly two hundred years fixated on revenge, even when he was hopelessly outmatched.

And the New York thing, of course.

"I think not having magic makes it a hell of a lot easier for you to run back to New York and pretend to be somebody else. But listen to me, Swan. You're not. It's time to stop running."

Even through her irritation, she realized that she was beginning to appreciate the fact that he gave her the hard truths that she didn't want to hear. Because, she realized, what he'd been telling her _was_ the truth.

"You think I don't know that? Yes, I run away. That's how I've always survived. But believe me, I want this to work. I want to go back. I want to stop running."

"What's changed your mind?" Emma heard the undertone of hope in his voice, but she knew that she couldn't address it yet.

"Watching my mother die." As she explained, she realized something else too.

Killian's story had helped change her mind. Yes, he'd been telling her the truth, but the ironic thing was that she could only see it when he wasn't even trying to convince her to stay.

He had lost everyone. Thinking her mother was dead had been the worst pain that Emma had ever felt, and Killian had felt that over and over again. If anything, she now realized how important it was to never take her family for granted. She had worked hard to find them, and now that she had them, she couldn't let them go. How could she, when she had the chance that she was certain Killian would have sold his soul for: the chance to have a family.

Still, Emma felt the words stick in her throat. She could only hope that he would understand through what she was able to say.

Killian's eternal belief in her proved to be justified. The wand worked, and she managed to finally get home. Sitting with her family, she felt a contentment that she had never felt before, but it wasn't quite complete.

She was so used to Killian being with her that it took a moment for her to realize that the emptiness that she was feeling, the sense of something wrong, was the fact that he wasn't there. A glance out the window revealed that he was alone, and it hurt Emma to see it.

She hadn't intended to kiss him. If she'd thought about beforehand, she'd never have been able to do it. In her heart, she knew that she liked Killian a lot, but she wasn't brave enough to open her heart again.

But then, he'd revealed what he'd given up to find her.

"You traded your ship for me?"

The idea was staggering in a way that nothing had ever been before. Here she was, Emma the orphan, the girl who had never been wanted...

And suddenly, here was a man who wanted her enough that he would give up the most important thing that he owned just to save her. He hadn't even told her about it before, when it could have been enough to force Emma to stay in Storybrooke out of guilt. He hadn't brought it up when she'd treated him horribly at times, or even when she'd accused him of being untrustworthy. He had never used it against her.

She'd known that Killian wasn't who she had originally thought he was, but nothing could have prepared her for this act of selflessness.

He had traded his home so that he could give her back her own.

It wasn't even just his home. It was his tie to his past, the only thing he had left of people he had cared for. She could picture all of the things that she'd found in his cabin, each one a priceless link to his lost loved ones.

And he'd given it all up for her.

In the end, there was only one possible response.

She kissed him.


	45. Chapter 44

**Epilogue**

* * *

The Future

* * *

"Where is everything?"

As much as she was afraid to ask, she knew she had to know.

Killian had arrived in New York with nothing but the clothes on his back and whatever fit in his pockets. The significance of that had never really hit her until she found out that Killian had given up his ship. Now, it was hitting her again with the force of a sledgehammer.

The cabin was empty.

Okay, not empty, but empty of Killian's belongings. The books, the sketches, the clothes, the drawer of Milah's things, Killian's violin...

She recognized the pitcher on the desk, but that was pretty much it.

In fact, it was so decidedly _not _Killian that Emma could only gape. Whereas Killian's space before had been neat and efficient, this was gaudy. Huge boxes of jewels and gold seemed to cover every surface, where books and more functional or sentimental items used to be. Sure, Killian had some things that resembled pirate treasure, but you could tell that the cabin was a living and working space before. The true treasures had been the things that would be worthless to anyone but him, rather than the gold and jewels. Now the cabin just looked like a hoarding space. Even the meal left over on the table looked overly indulgent for a ship.

Killian pressed his lips together. "Anything left in here is long gone, I'm sure."

Seeing the obvious heartbreak written across Emma's face, he hurried to continue. "I hid my most important possessions elsewhere, though, so there's a chance that they're still there."

From his face, she got the feeling that it wasn't a very good chance.

Emma nodded. "Lead the way."

She followed the pirate into a familiar room. Unless she was mistaken, this was the room where Killian had seen her doing chin-ups and had given her Neal's sword. They certainly had come a long way, Emma mused.

The first time she'd been in here, she hadn't even noticed the grate on the far side of the room.

"Tell me this wasn't your hiding spot," she said.

In answer, Killian pulled up the grate and dropped himself down. Her heart full of despair, Emma followed. There were more barrels and crates down there, which Killian began to pull aside. Emma moved over to help, heart pounding in trepidation. In contrast, Killian was calm and collected, at least as far as Emma could tell.

She paused in her shifting of the heavy containers, wiping some sweat off of her forehead. After a moment, she shrugged out of her red leather jacket, dropping it unceremoniously onto the dusty floor. She didn't miss the appreciative glance that Killian shot her way - her tank-top was quite tight - but she found that she couldn't fully enjoy the attention under the circumstances.

"What if-"

Killian shook his head. "It won't matter."

Oddly, Emma found that she couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. "Yes, it will. Your whole life was on this ship. If you've lost everything-"

The pirate straightened. "Emma, love," he gently pushed a stray hair out of her eyes. Once she reluctantly brought her eyes up to meet his, Killian offered her a small smile. "I knew what I was doing when I gave this ship up; I knew that it was unlikely that I would see my belongings again. If I find anything, it will just be a pleasant surprise. My whole life _was_ on this ship, but now, it's here with you. I haven't lost anything."

Vision blurring, Emma nodded, overwhelmed by the love that this man offered her. Killian placed a soft kiss to her forehead and pulled her into an embrace.

After a moment that could never be long enough, he released her and turned back to the barrels. Some time later, Killian reached the end of them and started prying up floorboards.

Emma found herself holding her breath, unable to look.

Killian stilled, then turned to her with tears in his eyes.

Her insides twisted with guilt. "I am so, so sorry-"

The words died in her throat as Killian pulled out paper after paper, followed by books, followed by his violin, followed by a few hairpins and a naval uniform.

Milah's clothes weren't there, Emma noticed.

She sank to the floor beside him, noticing the way his chin was subtly trembling. She wanted to tell him that he could cry if he wanted to, but she wasn't certain that he'd appreciate it.

"Your parents' portrait!" Emma exclaimed, eyes landing on the familiar picture. Only, now, the picture meant much more to Emma. This time, the painted couple smiling at her were people who she felt like she knew, captured in a moment of brief happiness throughout their very dark and far too short lives.

"You should hang it somewhere," she suggested.

At Killian's mute nod, she picked it up, only to notice another portrait underneath.

"Is this Ciarra and her parents?"

"You didn't see them?"

Emma shoved him lightly. "I'm not that much of a snoop, okay?"

"For a... what was it... bailbonds... detective... person, I would have expected you to find more things-"

She shot him a glare that made him chuckle. "I'm used to computers!"

Once again, she glanced down at the picture. Sari had a wide mouth that was meant for smiling, while Gavin had a twinkle in his that Emma had already imagined from Killian's stories. Their daughter, who looked to be about preschool age, was on Gavin's lap. Before, Emma may have felt a surge of jealousy to see such a happy family, but she realized that she didn't now. She had her own.

"And this is one of Ciarra when she's a bit older," Killian added, passing her a sketch.

"She was beautiful," Emma said, after a moment of study.

Killian nodded, sifting through more of the papers.

Emma picked up another to find a poem:

_Crying, my little one, footsore and weary?_

_Fall asleep, pretty one, warm on my shoulder:_

_I must tramp on through the winter night dreary,_

_While the snow falls on me colder and colder._

_You are my one, and I have not another;_

_Sleep soft my darling, my trouble and treasure;_

_Sleep warm and soft in the arms of your mother,_

_Dreaming of pretty things dreaming of pleasure.*_

It was signed by Milah and dedicated to Neal. Emma desperately wished that he was still alive so that she could show him.

"Irene and John," Killian passed her another portrait, this one much more lifelike than the others.

Emma laughed out loud. Irene had a pout on her face that made her look much younger than she probably was, clearly not happy about having to sit for a portrait. John was smirking.

By now, Emma had heard many more stories about Killian's niece. She'd gotten her uncle to help her fake her suicide using pixie dust, then left soon after with John in search of a bean or another mechanism to get to another world.

"She was sick of helping people, or so she said. She lied, of course," Killian had told her with a shrug.

"Oh?"

"She wanted to become a woman again because she was in love with John. And she wanted to protect him from Moriarty of course."

A comfortable silence fell between them as Killian looked out at the sea, his eyes the exact colour of the water in the afternoon sun.

"For a while, I thought that she would go in the other direction, you know," Killian said. "She seemed unfeeling, and she used people. But John Watson... he was good for her. He made her a hero."

He then offered Emma a fond smile that gave her the feeling that they were talking about more than just Irene and John.

She was pulled back to the present by Killian singing softly as he organized the papers.

"_Since Emma is true as she's fair,_

_My griefs I fling all to the wind,_

_'Tis a pleasing return for my care,_

_My mistress is constant and kind._

_Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love,_

_Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love,_

_I've done with the toils of the seas,_

_Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love."**_

Emma realized that she'd never heard him sing before, and she found that she regretted it. His voice was a warm and rich baritone that reminded her of the darkness that blanketed the ocean at dusk. It was a shame that he didn't sing more, she decided. She briefly wondered if his mother had ever taught him about singing as a child, or if he'd just inherited some talent.

"That's not a real song," she said, shooting him an amused look.

He raised an eyebrow. "Of course it is. Just because your name happens to be in it doesn't mean that I made it up."

Emma would have argued the point more, but she suddenly saw another sketch of a little boy signed by Milah. He was smiling encouragingly and holding out what looked like socks.

Even though she knew the answer, Emma asked, "Is this you?"

Killian took a glance at it and offered her a half-smile. "Aye."

Considering how attractive he was as an adult, Emma should have known that he would have been an adorable child. Still, she felt her heart melt at the sight of the little freckled boy with the large, expressive eyes.

They spent all morning looking through his belongings with Killian regaling her with more stories to explain various artifacts at her request. After going through a lot of them, they started to carry them up to his cabin. Emma took great pleasure in getting rid of Blackbeard's things and putting Killian's back where they belonged. There were less of them, but Emma was relieved that at least some of them had survived.

She had just finished hanging Edward and Christine's portrait when her eyes found the violin. She hesitated for a moment.

"Would you play for me?"

Killian froze, his own eyes drawn to the rich wood with something like fear.

"I'm rather out of practice, love," he said, hand coming up to scratch behind his ear.

"Please," Emma said, offering him her best pleading look. She knew from experience that he had trouble resisting it, so perhaps it wasn't very fair of her, but she really wanted to hear him play.

He sighed, and she knew that she had him.

"Fine. But it's a one time thing."

"Just like our first kiss."

"Swan," Killian said warningly.

Emma ignored him and picked up the instrument almost reverently. It was scratched and faded, but there was something about it that was intriguing, maybe simply because of its history. She had seen it before and not even noticed the scratches underneath the gleam of the well-polished wood; somehow, they made it even more beautiful. She could see why Milah had wanted to draw it so badly.

"It's really been around, hasn't it? I can't believe you carried this with you when you were living on the streets or lost in the mountains or..."

Killian shrugged. "I'm clearly far too sentimental."

He was becoming visibly agitated, fidgeting and avoiding her eyes.

"I won't mind if you suck." He raised an eyebrow, and Emma hurried to correct herself. "Which I don't think you will. You were a child prodigy, after all, and you have two hundreds years of playing under your belt."

He rolled his eyes. "Not helping, Swan."

"At least I'm not asking you to play the piano."

Killian paused in removing his hook to shoot her an incredulous look. "The piano? With only five fingers?" The false hand and bow slid into place with a small click.

"Captain Hook plays the piano in all the movies," she said with a shrug, to which Killian made a noise of disgust.

She offered him the instrument, pleased that her distraction seemed to have worked. At any rate, his nerves seemed to disappear the second the violin was in his hand. He held it in place with his chin and began to tune the instrument with a slight frown. The violin seemed to fit naturally in his hand, causing him to exude something capable yet carefree that made Emma know that he'd had nothing to be nervous about.

She wasn't entirely sure what she was expecting, but, from the first note, Emma knew that her expectations of his playing hadn't even come close to reality. She only barely managed to stifle a small gasp as the first phrase filled the room. In contrast to the emotional melody that filled the room, Killian's face was a mask of concentration, his movements graceful and confident. Emma could practically see the events of his past shimmer into existence with each note from the violin. There was Christine singing her last lullaby, then the snow falling on her grave, and there was his ship bobbing on the ocean waves.

As mesmerized as she was by Killian's playing, Emma couldn't have said what drew her attention to the window. Perhaps it was a sound from outside, or maybe the flickering shadow of wings. Regardless, her eyes were drawn to the small bird on the windowsill, looking intently through the glass with intelligent black eyes.

It was singing.

* * *

*Christina Rosetti's poem, not mine - thank you to the reviewer who recommended her way back at the start of this story!

**"Come, Loose Every Sail to the Breeze", British Trad.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story even with my sporadic updates. It's been a ridiculously rough year for me, and I'm so thankful for all of you who have given my writing a chance. I can't believe it's been over a year. For something that started as a one-shot, this became quite the project. I honestly was not expecting to ever finish this in September what with a suicide attempt, so finishing this is a pretty big thing for me. I'm glad that I didn't disappoint those of you who were reading! I'm especially thankful for all of you who have taken the time to review this.

Of course, I need to thank my amazing beta, Trish Tavor. I certainly never expected someone to want to edit my writing, and I never could have imagined that I would work with someone who does it so well.

I'll answer all reviews over the next couple of days, if anyone wants to take a look at a reply. Again, sorry for delaying that!

One review asked if I was planning another story, and I'll just answer that here. At the moment, I want to focus on my original writing projects. A friend wanted me to write a spin-off following Irene, and I may consider doing that eventually if it doesn't feel too self-indulgent (and once I find the motivation!). I may also eventually edit the start of this piece, since I think my writing has changed a bit over the year, and it may be nice to flesh some of my old stuff out. Again, that probably won't be in the near future. As for a sequel, it's definitely not in the works at the moment.

Now, one last big thanks to all of you who read _44 __chapters(!)_ of my rambling. It's been quite the ride. :)


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